INFINITE 1024 GHOSTS of GARRYOWEN
by CTCORBITT
Summary: It's 1912 and a storm is coming to Europe. Meanwhile, in New York City a former Pinkerton named DeWitt is offered a job that might just save his neck...travel to the city that got away, steal a girl locked in a tower and bring her back. But all is not as it seems, and what he finds there might just cost his life...or complete it. Rated T because...BioShock Infinite.
1. Chapter 1 Sitting in McSorley's

**Author's Note:** This isn't the Infinite you might have played through, and it's not only about the beginning and the end but the journey in between.

(Rated M for foul language and graphic violence, but nothing more than was in _Bioshock Infinite_ itself.)

* * *

 **1\. July 4, 1912 - Sitting in McSorley's**

Somewhere down East Seventh Street boys were at play, the crack of their cherry bombs an echo of the neighborhood's earlier festivities. As I perspired beside the cast iron stove Addison played Joplin on the piano. I gripped my stein tightly, eyes fixed, feet flat in the sawdust. "Slow down, kid," Finn said from behind the bar. "It ain't never right to play rag-time fast."

At the firecrackers I'd stopped drinking, waiting for the inevitable cry from outside as a kid lost a finger or an eye. With their laughter trailing off I realized the real reason I'd frozen and finished my quaff. Unsteadily I rose to join the scrum at the bar.

The clientele was the usual, raucous but not so much as to eclipse the boys' devilish glee. These were men who found the bar a better place to linger than at home, or men like me with no family at all. About them cigar smoke wafted through the air, hovering like traces of ink sprayed from a fountain pen. The only types that weren't here were those looking for ladies. Snug and evil, McSorley's Old Alehouse was for men only, and not a place to find tarts, wanton or otherwise.

Outside a train pushed up the El, rattling the paintings on the walls. In the bar side crush two joes were laughing and tipping mugs, bowler hats at rakish angles as foamy ale slaked their thirst. I listened half-heartedly to their boasts of business acumen, not knowing their names nor caring to. Behind the bar, above the brass ale taps' springs of unending inebriation an arched mirror hung, an ancient powder horn affixed near its bottom. As Ernie Finn stepped away, hands juggling a quartet of mugs, in its reflection I found the face of a man...bleary eyed, unshaven and drunk.

Beside his sad reflection a sketch hung within the lid of the open cash box, one of a farmer with a switch, finger pointed at a pig's ass. "WE TRUST HERE." It said. Scavenging my pockets, I tossed Ernie Finn two bits, the coins rolling on the bar and spinning to a stop amid a dribble of congealing beer. Ernie knew me...knew I would have been good for my tab and more, but here I always made sure to pay. I'd learned my lesson before...what life was like without the alcohol. Looking at me with tight brow he took the change in hand and wiped the spill, hanging the gray dish rag upon his belt.

Dark haired Irish, Finn was short and beanpole thin from Dublin, slightly balding with a rosy nose that would in later life swell to enormity. He was perhaps my best friend in Manhattan, and that meant the world. "Booker, are you feelin' well?"

"I'm fine." I slurred, loud enough to be heard over the slobbering fools nearby.

Leaning into my confidence, Ernie glanced toward the entrance. "Hey, I know you're three sheets to the wind, friend, but you might want to consider taking the back door."

"Why would that be?"

To my left an Italian looked toward the front entrance, countenance dark and fearful. "Because Ciro just walked in and he looks like he's looking for someone."

Since I was drunk and stupid I wasted no time in taking a gander. Just inside McSorley's twin doors I saw two men in long coats, silhouetted by the mangy light coming in from the street. Ciro Terranova it was. My ribs began to ache...and my kneecaps.

"Thanks, Ernie." Slipping feet from the brass rail I stumbled into the man next to me. Like me this whop was drinking, perspiration upon his face. I smiled. He didn't. Through the crowd Ciro's eyes had found mine. As I considered the back way out his brother Nick entered. At their approach Ernie washed his hands of my fate, tending to men calling for more beer and shots of whiskey and away from the Terranova boys. Reflexively I brushed the automatic in my vest.

At Nick's approach a table of not so gentlemen looked his way, the mobster's toss of head initiating their hasty exodus. By now the congregation of spirit worshipers were looking over their shoulders, eyes over mugs, sorry at the poor baitfish the sharks were about to take whole. "Mr. DeWitt. It has been a, how do you say, a long time?" Nick said in that sad excuse for English his mother had taught him. Behind me Ciro and two of his trailing goons were smiling. With a turn of palm Nick invited me to sit.

McSorley's chairs were, to their namesake, sat in sorely. Of hard wood and cracked, they left the posterior raw if not numb. "Look, Niko, I'm good for the money next week. I've got a play coming..." From behind me Ciro placed his hands upon my shoulders and I felt the boy's muscle come uncomfortably to my sides.

"Mr. DeWitt." Nick said through a broken keyboard of teeth. "We have heard these evasions very much by now, do you not think?" I wished then that I'd drunk more to dull the impending pain. "Oh, do not be afraid...at least for tonight. We happen to be in Bowery enjoying show when Ciro remember you. We attend your office, but find you not there. You are a creature of habit, no?"

"You could say that." I answered, knowing a misspoken word would end with my digits broken or worse. In my line of work, I needed them all. "Niko, I swear I'm good for it. Just hang on until next Friday."

Nick was smiling but shaking his head, dissonance unnerving. Soulless eyes hung upon me from beneath that protruding brow. "Mister Crookshanks, he inform us that we do without your payment for another week but no more. You will pay your due along with interest extended. Mr. DeWitt, as I have said, tonight you have no worries...but time is drawing short. Next week we expect payment in full or our encounter not be so 'amicable."

Despite my inebriation I felt their call settle on me like a millstone. Nick, Ciro and his goons were one thing...I'd taken down four burleys at the Rocks and come out ahead, but behind them stood the entire Morello family. Even if I got the drop on Nick's goons I'd be a dead man a hundred times over by payday. They rose without courtesy, the Sicilian at Ciro's side knocking me to the floor as he passed.

Around McSorley's vomitus cloister there were nervous looks...paused conversations. At the Terranovas' exit the tinking of jigs returned. Grasping the chair by its crest I pulled myself upward, realizing I wasn't the only one relieved. Brushing the sawdust from my hands, I made for the back room. It was McSorley's less dignified exit and a longer trek to my humble abode, but it was the way they _hadn't_ taken.

#

The back door creaked as I swung it outward, pulling my jacket about myself as I stepped down upon the dingy gray cobbles. Barrels and crates adorned the alley walls, the scent of spoiling trash wafting in the muggy miasma. About the court doors were closed against the dead of night and the nearby Bowery's vagrants. Walking eastward only a handful of lights lit my way. Somewhere in the shadows I heard a tomcat scream, followed by the throes of something small meeting its end.

As dismal as Seventh Street's illumination had been it was positively daylight compared the alley behind McSorley's. Twice I stumbled, realizing after the second spill that some of the wall-stacked crates had fallen and contents spilled. Negotiating the debris in the direction of the access to St. Marks, I looked up see two figures looming in the swirling yellow light. Upon the cobblestone my gait slowed.

"Are you DeWitt?"

"What's it to you?" I answered, hand drawing inside my vest.

"He said he'd be here..." I heard whisper one of the shadows.

Tall and thin, the first speaker stepped into the luminance of the nearby bulb, peering at my hand. "It's him." He croaked with a nod my direction. "Do it!" In the hands of his backlit men I saw baseball bats rise.

I began to backpedal...tumbling promptly over the stray bins of rotting produce. "Nick and I had a deal!" I shouted drunkenly from the stone. A wooden slugger wheezed beside me, striking brick with an ashen crunch. Though I couldn't see his face the first of them was the biggest, a mountain of muscle in workingman's vest and dungarees. As he reared back for another strike, I jammed my Smith and Wesson in his chest and pulled the trigger. It went off with a crack, shattering the night air and dropping him to his knees. For a moment his eyes hovered opposite mine in disbelief, blood burbling from the hole in his heart. The bat clattered from his hand and he dropped ugly side to the ground.

"God dammit, you son of a bitch!" Their leader bellowed, looking over his shoulder. "You said he wouldn't be armed!" Next to me the brickwork exploded, the blast of a shotgun echoing through the alley. As the dead guy's crony closed I rolled the mug up as a shield, a second blast tearing the flesh and blood from his lifeless back. Silhouetted in the halo of that lone light bulb, I saw the second guy's weapon a double barrel. As he stooped to reload I shot him through the skull then let loose a shot at the leader near the alleyway's end. Stone sprayed from the wall, but where his shadow had been was only the cast of color from down the alley. Too easy, I thought, my pulse refusing to slow. I took to the closer wall on my left and approached the alley. I heard a muffled thud.

"Many pardons, old chap. I hazard I was mistaken." Came from down the way. Swinging around the corner with Smith and Wesson ready, I saw a man tapping a body with his cane. In the distance I heard a whistle. He turned his gaze toward me. "Excellent handiwork, Mr. DeWitt, but I do believe we should be going."

" _We_ should be going?" I leveled the gun upon the man's forehead and cocked it. "Who the hell are _yo_ u?" On the ground a tall Irishman lay wide eyed in death. "And how do you know my name?"

"Let us just say that I am a business associate of these gentlemen, however our association has come to an end. You may call me Laslowe if you wish, although I do not believe our arrangement will require such."

" _Arrangement_?" I muttered, kicking the dead man's flank for confidence. Nearer now sounded the whistle.

"Indeed." He sneered at my pistol before casting his eyes back toward St. Marks. "Should we go? I doubt you'd wish the Constabulary to find you under these circumstances. Particularly with your record." He removed a pocket watch from his vest.

"What do you know about me?"

"More than you'd expect." He said with a smirk. "Would you mind if I accompanied you?" Unthreatening he was, but a man lay stone dead at his feet.

"No dice. I'm getting out of here. Stay out of my way if you want to live." I hit St. Marks at a jog, dodging piles of festering trash, wondering if I should chuck my pistol in the sewer. Behind me he followed at a distance on the deserted sidewalk, gait patient. As I turned the corner I yanked my jacket collar up about my neck...tucked my hands into my pockets and looked about.

"Mr. DeWitt, I would like you to know that my employer has use for a talent like you." I stumbled and my head spun, still reeling from the ale. "I would doubt that many men could put down a pair of hired guns such as those poor fellows, particularly in your condition."

" _Your_ men...you sent them to gun me down, then killed one yourself. Why?" By now he'd gotten close enough that I could look him in the eye again. His hair was sandy brown, a shade lighter than mine with a tinge of ginger. Like mine his eyes were blue, face clean shaven and distinguished, tan coat and slacks immaculate. Youngish. In the wan streetlight I could see little emotion upon his face.

"They were not 'my men,' although I must say that I did help them deduce where to find you."

I plugged my weapon into his chin. Again the whistle blew, just back from where we'd come. "Why?"

"Because I not only needed to find _you_ , Mr. DeWitt, but remove them from the equation." With a tilt of his head he invited me to walk. After a moment I withdrew the gun, looking back over my shoulder.

"All right, jackass, let's go and quick."

As we turned southbound onto Third another train raced overhead, stifling any speech. Within the deeper shadows below the El I relaxed, reasonably certain any police attention would be unable to follow. I shoved my pistol back into my vest. As Laslowe kept pace we passed Seventh Street. The alehouse was still doing business. Somehow I managed to hold off. At least Nick and Ciro were nowhere to be seen.

"Okay, Laslowe...do you have a first name, because you seem familiar."

"Do I?"

"Yeah...like we've met before. I don't forget a face."

"I don't believe we have. I think I would remember _you_."

"And those men, if not yours, who the hell were they, anyway? Nick and Ciro's Morello muscle?"

"I don't believe I know this 'Nick and Ciro,' but I can assure you they were nonetheless in the employee of a dangerous man." He replied, noting the passage of a police car wailing up 6th Street. "You may call me Robert."

"Look, _Robert_ , I know lots of 'dangerous men' and I ain't never met those guys in my life. I appreciate your help and all, but this is where we part ways."

"Really?" Laslowe said, stopping me with the bar of his cane to the brick wall. "Because I understand that you have a matter of some debt to assuage. Would _that_ be of interest to you?"

"What do you know about my debts?" I growled, batting his stick aside, wondering if this still weren't some crazy game of Nick's. Half a mind to take him by the collar, I looked to the black cane and thought better of it.

" _How_ I know about these matters is less important than _why_ I know about these matters, Mr. DeWitt. As I emphasized before, my employer has use for your, err...considerable talents. In exchange for a service provided, he is willing to make _good_ for _any_ monies you might owe your compatriots."

"You mean...he's willing to pay off my debt?"

Laslowe offered a curt smile. "Exactly."

#

My head had stopped spinning when we arrived back at my tenement twenty minutes later. Crammed in like sardines alongside an endless parade of soot-stained brickworks, my chunk of paradise was home by necessity not choice. The Bowery had been going downhill for decades, and when I'd arrived fresh off the train from Midwest skull-cracking it had fit the bill. Taking three steps up to the landing, I opened 108's unlocked door, glancing at the iron fire escape above to ensure no surprises were in store. McSorely's was wearing off, but there was plenty of booze in the air...produced by the bum who lay just inside.

Stepping over his wreck and an empty bottle, I led Laslowe down the dusty, piss-smelling hallway. Here and there paper peeled from the walls. The dust laden floorboards creaked beneath our feet, something I worried for...my lower neighbors were asleep, and I was certain to hear about it if they didn't remain that way.

As we came to the end of the hall I offered him first ascent. The wooden stair's boards strained beneath our weight until we alighted upon the second floor. Approaching my office I realized that I'd not anticipated a client, let alone one loaded enough to save my skin. I inspected the door for signs of entry. Its frosted glass mocked me:

 _Booker DeWitt_

 _–_

 _Investigations into_

 _matters both public & private_

It should have said _Drunken Imbecile_. I inserted my brass key into the lock and steadied myself against the doorframe, the tumblers opening with a click and mechanical turn. "So, this job...where is it? _What_ is it?"

"It's rather simple, really." Laslowe said, inspecting the faded brown and white stripe wall paper as I swiped the light on. Before the darkened far windows a lone desk and unmade bed were the only furniture, those and a dresser adorned with my old steamer trunk and Annabelle's small jewelry case. Above us upon the ceiling, a fan began to turn. My 'office' had for years doubled as my apartment, long and narrow, adjoined by a small bedroom and bath at the broader rear. Noting the empty bottles of whiskey upon the desk, Laslowe turned to me.

"Well, down to brass tacks. The job, should you decide to accept it and I _hope_ you shall, is not terribly far away..." D.C., I thought I heard him say. He wandered toward the rear of the room, inspecting my wall mounted Seventh Cavalry shadowbox. As he did he extracted a small envelope from his inner coat pocket and handed it to me without looking. After a guarded moment I took it in hand, opening it to find a handful of paper.

The first was a postcard of a golden angel against a sky of blue, proclaiming itself to be a 'Souvenir from Monument Island.' The next was a cipher of a scroll, a key and a dagger, while the third in elegant writing was the latitude and longitude for New York City. The latter puzzled me...I already knew where New York was. Perhaps _most_ intriguing was the photograph of a dark-haired young woman in a cream dress, taken from an angle just below her waist. Though her face was turned away, she was clearly lovely. Upon the back of its faded paper was hand written the name ' _Elizabeth_.'

Laslowe drew a key, three First Class boarding passes and a coin purse from his pocket. "I do believe that you shall also require these." Preoccupied with the photo, I took them in hand. "White City Lines...White Star? Why not the New York Central?"

Laslowe remained inscruitable. "Ensure that you are at Grand Central tomorrow at one. The remainder shall be self-evident."

The pouch held two dozen silver coins. "And the key?"

"Keep it close. Its utility shall also become apparent to you...in due time."

I dropped the bag on the table with a metallic slink...turned the brass in my hand, finding a black songbird on one side and a cage on the opposite of its white enamel bow. "And if I do this, Laslowe, your boss will be good for everything? It's a lot of money...I need to know that he's good for _all_ of it 'cause I'm running out of time."

"My 'boss' has resources to spare, Mr. DeWitt. Bring us the girl...and wipe away the debt."


	2. Chapter 2 Ascension

**2\. Ascension.**

I didn't remember Laslowe's departure but found myself unsettled by the storms later that night, turning in a fitful, lightning rattled sleep. The next morning when I awoke my hangover pounded. I fetched a bath and cleaned up, wondering if any of it had been real, thoughts put to rest when I noticed Laslowe's tokens upon my desk. I pondered the woman's photograph once more...glanced at the tickets. _White City Lines_.

Air travel.

I packed my gun trying not to think about it, glancing midway through my effort to Annabelle's dust covered jewelry case. It helped to remember there were worse things in life than flying. With time wasting I finished and headed out.

Upon my exit I geared myself for dripping downspouts and puddles in the gutter, but as I emerged I found the street bone dry. Dozens walked the sidewalks before me, the city's late morning routine underway. Overhead a train clattered down the El, while black model V's and Chryslers chased horse drawn carts. Through the stanchions of the El on the other side of Bowery peeked Dougherty's. It struck me odd, standing there, though I couldn't figure out why. Then I realized the coffee man's awning was not only not dripping but solid white. I rubbed my eyes. In dire need of something to sooth my skull, I dodged the El's pylons and traffic for a cup of Joe.

Inside Dougherty's was narrow as my flat, little more than a bar lined with stools. A dozen or more men sat upon them, imbibing the dark coffee its proprietor was famous for. I ambled to the side and gave Leroy a shout, asking for my usual. When he turned he sported a bushy brown mustache and mutton chops. "Some storm last night, wasn't it?"

"Storm?"

"Yeah...I guess it got your awning. Nice quick fix."

He looked at me queerly. "Awning? Something the matter, friend?"

I couldn't help but stare at the rat beneath Leroy's nose. "When'd you grow that?"

"Not a good way to start business, pilgrim, insulting a man's mustache."

I didn't know what to think. Leroy was a reasonable friend of mine and yesterday he'd been clean shaven. And his awning candy striped. Looking about other things were off too...the coffee pots were gray instead of black. Tablecloths upon his two back door tables white instead of red plaid. The damned awning. "Uh, sorry, Leroy. Just the usual."

"And what is your 'usual?'" He asked, cleaning out a mug with a white dishrag.

"Black, Leroy." I said, attempting to determine if his newfound facial hair was some sort of practical joke. "Like always."

"Like 'always'...do I know you, friend?" He said again, and I realized the oddness was compounding. Scrounging a scarce nickel from my jacket I slid it across the bar. Leroy half turned and fetched a cup and saucer, filling it carelessly before clattering its contents upon the counter before me. Downing the half spilt libation, I left the counter behind for track-shadowed Bowery.

In the striations of sunlight beneath the El my feet found iron stairs upward, climbing four flights until I arrived at Grand Street Express Station. The morning view from its wings was better and I could see both the El and Bowery receding to the north. The sight was familiar but...off. From above I heard a droning, a powerful herald that eclipsed the street noise from below. Over the elevated tracks a shadow rippled cross the bright shadowed angles of the surrounding buildings. Looking from the station alongside a knot of businessmen, I shielded my eyes with upraised hand. An immense cigar coursed overhead, cutting northward to the east of the Woolworth Building. Upon its tail I saw a logo of a city in the clouds, the portrait of a woman and a name... _The First Lady_. Beside me a man was reading the paper, headlines fretting over the storm clouds in Europe. Downline a whistle blew. My ride approached.

The previous night's encounters had been queer, but as we headed uptown I began to notices other subtle oddities. Here and there buildings seemed renovated. I saw a gray monolith under construction I had no recollection of. Convinced the hangover was dulling my mind and I'd simply been paying more attention to my navel than the world these last months, I dropped the El at 42nd and made on foot for Grand Central Terminal. Adjacent to the Biltmore its gray stone facade was comforting, capped by a latticework cylinder of curving black steel that necked inward at its waist and outward toward the top five hundred feet above. There a gantry arm hung perpendicular to it, forming a solid black "T." Arrayed along its length in echelon hung a dozen zeppelins, all angled with the breeze beneath a dome of blue.

Mercury watched over 42nd Street as I entered the station, a steady stream of Fords and other contraptions plying the street behind me. As I joined the crowd's progress through the West Entrance I glanced to the boarding pass Laslowe had supplied. ' _The First Lady_ ,' it read. People flowed about me in a river, half cascading from the station's West Balcony toward the polished marble Main Concourse. The remainder ascended staircases up. Joining the latter, I searched one by one the string of booths, passing Cunard, Holland, Red Star, White Star, Lloyds, and National. Discovering the latter's attendant unengaged, I approached his cage.

"Excuse me, Sir. I'm looking for the...uh, White City Airship Line. I have a ticket for the _First Lady_ departing this evening."

"So you're one of _them_."

"One of uh, _whom_?" To my right along Grand Central's uppermost concourse people were queuing, Cunard Line brimming for an imminent departure. Behind me, a top-hatted gentlemen grunted, adding pressure to my impromptu inquiry.

The teller looked at me with a monocled green eye, fingering his snowy remnant of hair. "One of Comstock's freaks. No better than the damned Mormons." With a dismissive toss of head he pointed out a crowded booth on the other side of the Upper Concourse. "White City's over there. You should be glad you already have a ticket, son...they're always full this late. The lifts are on the North side. Enjoy the welcoming committee."

"Welcoming committee?" I said, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Ticket in hand, I ambled across the skywalk. Crossing the sea of passengers ebbing Grand Central's Lower Concourse, I looked at the throng of families and businessmen at the booth before me. _Mormons_ , I thought. I'd never had a problem with Mormons or anyone else...as long as they left me the hell alone. Looking at my ticket, the line, and having nothing other than a thin rucksack, I heeded the curmudgeon's advice and made for the elevators instead.

At the end of the breezeway I milled with a dozen others in the shadow of marble-anchored girders. Presently a lift arrived, one of many in the gilded circular bank. As we rose, hazy New York sprawled, river split, gray as far as the eye could see.

Northward I found ruddy Harlem, and south near the Battery I could see the Statue of Liberty and a smatter of ships upon shimmering New York Harbor. Along its wharves hung a slate of massive air leviathans, taking on and disgorging all manner of cargo. Aloft I could see others, smoke belching from their flanks as they cut the afternoon blue. Low over the Narrows a gleaming grey battleship sliced, her bulk bristling with flags and armament. Bound for Lakehurst, no doubt. The elevator coasted to a halt at the berthing arm.

As I followed my fellow travelers outward I came face to face with a deathly plunge to the concrete below. Luckily the tower and it arms' steel gantries were clad by some type of glass. Keeping my eyes ahead I fell into line with a group of top hatted business men and followed their party down the boarding arm, the wall of gray that was the _First Lady_ at my left. In the distance about the stern of her thousand foot extent airscrews idled. As I waited my turn to step across the windy crack of nothingness I examining her steel skinned outer hull...inspecting the exactitude of her welds. I made the mistake of looking down toward her bridge. Beyond her front gondola lay dizzying infinity.

At the boarding arm a black haired conductor checked passes and seemed to notice my stagger. With a grin he punched mine, bidding me a pleasant journey and the Prophet's blessing. A steward was waiting to show me to my quarters.

Having contributed nothing toward my passage I wasn't expecting luxury, thus I was surprised at what my ticket garnered. Carpeted in red, the _Lady's_ passageways were wider than other dirigibles I'd flown and my quarters even more so. It had more than enough room for a bed and table, as well as a bath and small lavatory. Had I not been quaking I might have been pleased.

I spent the next several minutes cemented within my chair at the inboard side of the room, as far away from that infinitude as I could manage. Occasionally I'd look up to see the skyline, the towers of the financial district and their flags of red, white and blue caught in the wind. Remembering my ticket, I pulled out a sheaf of paper and started listing contacts in D.C. who might be of aid. With a clarion horn the _First Lady_ finally cast off. As the airship rose, the props spun up behind and we were underway.

It was cooler aloft...particularly with the breeze wafting through my stateroom's open windows. Through vents in the ceiling more air began to flow. I closed my eyes and for the first time relaxed. Soon New Jersey began to pass outside, a pastiche of brick clad high rises and black plumed factories sketching the green Hudson backed by bulwark of white cumulus in the hazy green distance. We were making southwest toward the harbor.

With uncertain step I rose and approached the sill...slid the windows open to realize my cabin had a balcony...one I'd not be using. We were crossing east of the Battery, delivering a fine if nauseating view of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Despite the drone of our motors and the din of those along the waterfront below it was still in my stateroom. Somewhere from above I heard a phonograph carrying the melody of ' _Mister Moon Man_ '. As _The Lady_ angled southward toward the Narrows and sea my stomach turned and I stepped away from the panorama, which gave me welcome relief. Deciding to improve upon it, I closed the blinds and lay down. For a while I almost forgot I was two thousand feet in the air.

I don't know how long I slept but when I woke it was late afternoon. I rose and headed to the bathroom, taking care of vital matters, washing face and hands in a spotless porcelain sink. Without the horizon to remind me I was queasy my stomach had returned to normal, and not having eaten since McSorely's, if one could call it that, I determined to find dinner.

After a short consult with the mirror I ventured into the passageway, encountering as I did so a family passing, all dressed in fine clothing. The children were talking about food, so hands in pockets I decided to follow and see if that might settle me. The father, a tall, lean man with a full head of peppered gray, was going on with his wife about business opportunities his dealings with a man named Fink. Adjusting her broad white hat, she inquired why he felt the need to do so yet again. He remained silent.

They headed toward the centerline of the ship and I trailed them down several flights of stairs, hearing the thrum of the screws carrying through the structure as we walked. Moments later we came to a queue outside the First Class Dining Salon. As the wait staff attended the line of passengers and their tickets, I noticed the walls full of photographs and posters, one of which captured my eye...a great statue of a winged angel, arms outstretched. Save for the words embossed upon it, it was a perfect match to the postcard Laslowe had given me. Below it was printed:

 _The Tower Protects the Lamb_

 _from the False Shepherd_

As I puzzled over the statement it dawned upon me that I'd never seen such a monument in D.C. before or even heard of it. Surely such a thing was one of the miracles of the modern world. As I looked at more of the paraphernalia, most seemed to concern the faith and conversion, along with some mumbo jumbo about the Founding Fathers. There were at least seven different tracts on Baptism.

"Boarding pass, Sir?"

I put the leaflets back on the rack and handed it to him. "Sure. Here ya go."

Dressed in a white coat, black trousers and a same color bow tie the man smiled at me, skin pale as a lily. "If you'd like to know more about the Prophet's vision, you're more than welcome to visit the Memorial Chapel at the rear of the _Lady_." By the way he looked at me, I couldn't tell whether he was being earnest or simply trying to dismiss the unkempt, ill-dressed bumpkin.

"Memorial Chapel?" Having zero use for religion or fancy clothing, I approximated a smile nonetheless. "Well, thank you kindly." Balding with a ring of hair around a glossy pate, he returned the gesture but neither moved nor took my ticket.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but if your intent is to dine that requires formal dress."

My stomach moved. "This was a short notice trip and I didn't pack well. Any chance I might be able to, uh..." I looked around. "Rent one for the evening?"

"I'll see what I can do." He said with an insincere smile.

Within a few minutes the man handed me off to a steward who showed me to a coatroom...apparently such services were needed upon occasion. Finding a black tuxedo roughly my size I changed, adjusting afterward my loaner bowtie in the mirror. Finding no properly fitting shoes, I figured my boots would have to do. As I prepared to depart the attendant frowned, presenting me with a top hat and pair of white gloves. "I do believe, Sir, that you'll require these."

"Thanks." I grimaced. For his effort I handed him a silver coin.

The _Lady's_ dining room was decked with white clothed tables and crystal chandeliers along with a gaudy array of statuary that seemed an odd recounting of the Old Testament. With other diners dressed to the Nines I couldn't help but feel lesser. I kept my shoulders straight and marched in, rationalizing that I'd never meet any of these people again. Handing the Maitre'D my ticket, he returned it with a nodding smile and had a kid show me to my table.

My seating was at a round with seven others, four of whom were the trim little family I'd slipped in behind. Dressed in black coat, top hat and white gloves another gentlemen and his wife joined us. Caddy-corner to mine, the final seat remained empty.

The family's little blonde seemed to watch me perniciously from across the table, teasing at her curls until the mother stopped her. As the man and his wife argued over another matter financial their boy experimented with the white napkins laid out so neatly, then moved on to the tablecloth. Beneath her voice the new woman was chastising her husband, a thin man with thick ginger sideburns that melded seamlessly into an even thicker mustache. Wine had been set out. I poured myself a glass and took a drink.

Looking at my pass I saw the arrival time of approximately seven in the morning. About the time the wait staff began laying out our entrée of lamb shanks, a gentleman in a tuxedo and top hat joined our table, taking the empty seat. Like all of the men gathered he wore white gloves.

"Many apologies..." He began in a well-heeled British accent. "I do hate joining the dinner late, but I was detained." Glancing toward the black waiter laying out the plates, he grinned. "Ah, _lamb_...my favorite." Seating himself, he pulled his chair behind him. "I assume I'm late for introduction? Andrew Edmonton, Lloyds of London."

Edmonton was looking towards the married man and his wife, blue eyes framed by a handsome face, clean complexion and sandy blond hair. Tipping his hat, the already seated gentleman inspected the new arrival. "Saltonstall's the name." He said, squeezing the lady's hand next to him. "This is my wife, Lavinia."

"Jason VanHoever." The gentleman next to him continued. "May I introduce my wife, Whitney, my daughter Chastity and son Edgar." Say hello, children."

"Good evening, Mr. Edmonton. Good evening, Mr. Saltonstall." The girl responded primly, shoulders against the backrest of her seat.

Roused from his play with the tablecloth the boy looked up. With a discreet rap of knuckles the mother brought the boy into similar line. "Good evening, uh, Mr. Edmonton. Mr. Saltandsmall."

All eyes turned uncomfortably to me. "Booker DeWitt." I said after a moment. "Pleasure to meet you."

"So, what brings you all to the White City?" Saltonstall asked the father, dragging his eyes from the boy who'd butchered his name. Simultaneously he tapped the table, drawing the attention of a Negro waiter. Now that I looked, I realized the entire wait staff was Negro. I began to eat.

As the immaculately dressed servant reached between them to pour more wine VanHoever responded. "As a matter of fact, I'm happy to say that that the four of us will be joining your polity, Mr. Saltonstall. I've managed to come by a job at the Liftworks, and of course Whitney and I have been an admirer of Father Comstock's gift for prophecy for many years. I cannot tell you how excited we are to finally join him upon high!"

"Are you Congregational, then?" Saltonstall inquired, both he and his wife obviously pleased. "Where do you hail from?"

"Milford...Illinois." VanHoever answered, although I detected a trace of reluctance in his voice. "We're hoping for a more...peaceable life in the city, amongst our own."

"Indeed." Saltonstall responded. "Well, it can be difficult dwelling amongst the Gentiles, but you have obviously realized the benefits of the Prophet's vision. I do hope that once you've met the requirements for citizenship you'll consider voting for me. I'm running for Councilman for the Sixth Ward." Saltonstall's attention passed to the British chap.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Saltonstall. Lloyd's has me here for consultation with Mr. Fink. We're in the process of adjusting some policies and need some specific details on the newest manufacture. I have to say, our Board of Directors has been very impressed with what we've seen in the Liftworks' literature. Columbia is a wonder, but the fact we can all have our own little piece of it has made the world anew."

"Now if only Roosevelt would let us alone." Saltonstall chuckled, teasing at the strays of his ample sideburn. "That dog seems intent on maintaining a stranglehold upon our livelihood, limiting us to the territorial waters. I mean, surely he has to recognize our independence. One would think..."

"That it would be foolish to put one's bread and butter on a leash?" Edmonton smirked. He took a drink. "Not that I'm unsympathetic to Columbia's cause, but one must acknowledge the whole Peking affair. It would have been far more prudent to declare independence _before_ the Americans had equipped their Great White Fleet, don't you think?"

Saltonstall smiled coolly. "Point taken."

What they were talking about I'd no idea, but I _had_ begun to doubt we were bound for Washington. As I prosecuted my dinner Saltonstall's wife took up the conversation with VanHoeven concerning a religious matter, something about the Prophet being foretold in Scripture or the Prophet telling scripture. Ambivalent toward the subject, Edmonton assumed a distant look, gazing out the windows below at the north shore of Long Island swimming by.

"How about you, Mr. DeWitt?" Saltonstall eventually asked. I'd finished, in the denouement of the meal having turned from the table to evening horizon.

"Me? Uh, well...I'm here to pick up a...family friend."

"You have family in Columbia, then?" Saltonstall asked, sipping his Merlot.

"Well, yes...and no." I answered, now quite uncertain where we were bound for. As I thought about the boarding pass the base of my glass struck the tablecloth. "I'm doing a favor for a friend who does. Walter...Pigeon."

"Pigeon, eh? I know a couple of Pigeons. Do you mind me asking where he lives? Perhaps he's in my District?" As he spoke his eyes lingered upon my right hand. "Dear fellow, it seems your wine had spotted your glove. I looked down from my emptied glass to see red stain spreading.

"So it has." I peeled it back, to which Edmonton at my side seemed to take notice. Caring neither for dessert nor further interrogation I rose. "Perhaps I should take a little more care. If you'll excuse me, I think I need to wash this out."

My exodus led me to the First Lady's Promenade, a walkway whose polished railing I approached with hesitation. A foot beyond it panes of glass separated me from a precipitous fall. Below the sea was black save for the shimmering crest of the occasional breaker, the scrawl of Long Island dotted by pinpoints of coastal villages in the oncoming night. Above a line of blue arced across the sky, to its east black.

We weren't bound for D.C. The pass, now that I clearly read it, said "Columbia." Despite being inside the glass the wind whipped and threatened to take it. I sequestered it back in my pocket, ridding myself afterward of the wet gloves.

I didn't often find things beautiful, not since Annabelle had died, but leaning upon the railings I knew she would have liked this. Realizing where my thoughts were heading I sheathed the dagger before its bite grew fatal. Off to the south and near the coast a blaze of blue light streaked skyward above the lights of a modest city, upward into a sea of stars. Startled, I tried to focus on its source until I found a cliff borne tower along Long Island's rocky coast...a lighthouse. Atop its heights a ball of light glowed iridescent blue. It was like no other lighthouse I'd ever seen. As I watched another sheath of lightning, for I could only call it that shot heavenward. I stood dumbfounded.

I glanced over my shoulder to see an elderly man and his wife. Along with a handful of the upper set they'd emerged from the Dining Hall to take in the sights alongside me. On this side _The First Lady_ ushered in the coming of night. My solitude was spoiled.

"A fine evening, isn't it?" He said with a mustache concealed smile, throwing white scarf about neck. "The last time we crossed we ran into ferocious storms. That was a tribulation, I'll tell you, what with lightning knocking all about and St. Elmo's fire on every guy line. The crewmen nearly had to sedate Fanny." He knocked on the steel frame member next to him with his cane. "They assured me that the vessel was unsinkable, you might say."

"Good to know." Elbows on the railing, I had my hands clasped. "So you're crossing...not going to, uh, Columbia?"

"Bound for the Continent, actually."

"Why not just go direct?"

"A detour of convenience. I have some business to conduct in that place, much as I detest it."

"Detest? An awfully strong word."

"My husband isn't much on, well, the Prophet's teachings." His wife whispered. Others had by now joined us and I understood her discretion.

My gaze returned to the south. "I see. If you don't mind me asking," I remarked. "Do you have any idea as to what _that_ is? Some form of beacon?"

Piercing hazel eyes found the strange lighthouse. He was taller than me by a shade and heavier. "I believe that's Shoreham. Must be Tesla up to his tricks again."

"Shoreham?" I replied, trying not to fixate upon the prominence of his bulbous nose. "Who is _Tesla_?"

"A madman." The man sighed, grim in his delivery. Between his fingers he tinkered unconsciously with a white sideburn. "Thankfully, _our_ madman. I don't believe I caught your name?"

"DeWitt. Booker DeWitt."

"That's Flemish, isn't it? Or is it Dutch? Well, no matter. Allow me to introduce myself." He said, offering his hand. "I am James Morgan."


	3. Chapter 3 White City

**3\. White City**

When I woke the next morning I found the blinds half open, having failed to close them before turning in. With the coming of the sun their shadows now draped my sheets. A whistling carried from outside as I rose, and as the white linen fell from my chest I looked down to see a catalogue of scars and self-inflicted misery. Stepping into the bathroom I washed my face, turning to find my towels fallen into the open toilet.

With my face still dripping, I looked at my reflection. _What the hell was I doing here_? I should just keep on going, cross the Atlantic and be done with it. Maybe Paris. Beyond the door I heard a porter's trolley. Wrapping a white robe about myself, I stepped to the door. Outside a hunched black was pushing a cart into an alcove. "Uh, good morning, Sir. Would you happen to have an extra set of towels? I seem to have let mine take a swim."

Dark skinned and immaculately accoutered, the Steward turned to me. "Towels, why, Yessuh, I do so happen to. Jus' getting' ready to restock once you kindly folk disembark." Upon his pocket the man wore a brass nameplate with the moniker _Greene_.

After retriving a stack of towels from his cart Greene entered, making for the bathroom. At its entrance he paused, wincing before he fished the soiled ones from my commode. As he cleaned up after my mess, I stepped to the blinds and looked out. It was early morning and the sun was cutting through the slats in streaks. Though dazzling to the southeast, I looked off more northerly to see oncoming blue. The wind had picked up, something I noticed not from the noise but the whitecaps marching northeast to southwest below.

"We should be in Columbia real soon now, Suh. Passed over Cape Cod and just eas' O Boston jus' before daybreak. Jus' a few hours now before we back safe and sound." Before him he wrung the beasts out.

"Safe and sound?" What's your name, Mr. Greene?"

"Oh, Suh, I go by Lionel."

"Lionel, eh?" Into the passageway he returned, then back to the bath to wash his hands. Retrieving his stack of white from where he'd left it upon the couch, he took them into the bathroom and hung them the brass rail above the tub. "Where are you from, Lionel?"

"Oh, Southside Emporia, Suh. Before that ma' family called Chicago home."

"Emporia, eh?"

"Yes, Suh. I was jus' a baby when Father Comstock and his circle took us in."

"So, uh, tell me about this Columbia..."

"Yes, Suh. Da _Flyin' city._ "

" _Flying_...city?"

"Yes, Suh...same as dis drigable." By his look he was telling the God's honest truth.

I looked about, having never thought much about how what made airships fly. I'd always thought it was with gas...but a _city_?" Searching his pockets, Lionel removed a rumpled postcard. Taken at a distance the photograph captured the spread of an entire metropolis...suspended heavenly amidst the clouds. "The City of the Prophet upon High." Its caption read. I looked at it spellbound before turning up to him and handing it back. "That does it for the li'l boys room. You sure you don't be wantin' nothin' else, Suh?"

"No, uh, I'm good Lionel. Thank you, kindly."

Lionel departed and I took a short bath, preoccupied by thoughts of this Columbia. Not the 'District of' but simply _Columbia_.

 _Flying city_.

Striped gray pants and a leather vest greeted me upon my exit, draped over the chair where I'd left them the night before. Pulling a white collared shirt from my bag I pulled it on, donned the others and tied my neckerchief. The shoulder holster I left in my bag. I sat for a long time before heading up on deck.

Although I wasn't assigned it, I took my meal in steerage along with folks I was more comfortable with. I'd never felt at ease amongst my 'betters' and didn't feel the need to start feeling so now. As I sat on the port deck eating a pastrami along with some of the other 'lessers,' _The Lady_ found its way into a flotilla of cumulus towering over the Atlantic. I couldn't for the life of me make sense of all this. In all my time in the Army and jobs as a Pinkerton, I'd never seen a flying city...or even heard of one. Yet the memory of it festered in my head.

Sandwich in hand I ate silently along the wooden railing. It wasn't long before the clouds parted to reveal a gray airship a few miles away, red and black waterline running its cigar shaped hull stem to stern. Structure jutted both above and below. Like _The First Lady_ it approached a thousand feet in length, but with a fore swept prow that cut the air like a trireme of old. Above and below eight pair of guns jutted imposingly into the air, while along its flanks smaller weaponry bristled. Smoke belched in quick stream from its sleek, side mounted stacks, ahead of a forest of rear mounted airscrews. As I watched, a small scout plane detached from a lower mooring, the pursuit craft racing off amid the billowing plumes. Piercing a cloud not far beyond its gray bulk I shortly saw another leviathan emerge, hull gleaming fractiously in the mid-morning light. Upon both sterns snapped Americans ensigns. Battleships.

"Looks like someone means business."

The worker paused from his bite and cocked his newsie, gesturing toward towards the behemoths with buns and flopping meat. "Aye, if I'm not mistaken, I believe that bruiser is the dreadnaught _Wyoming_ , and that one, pokin' his big guns through the clouds, why that's _Arkansas_. He answered in an Irish twang. "Part of Congress's hedge upon our Columbian governance...just to ensure the fair flying city doesn't fly _too_ far...again."

"Fly too far?" I asked, somehow knowing what he'd say even before he answered. It was the second time someone had made mention of that.

"After the last time seems like they learned a lesson. Don't need no more cities burned to the ground."

Peking, I suddenly realized he was talking about, and as the cloud tops swept by and the battleships fell behind I wondered even how I knew that. "Mind me asking what business you have in this Columbia, friend?"

"I'd love ta' tell ya' I've a rich job and lots of employees to look over, but truth told I'm just going home to my family. I work Fink's docks for a livin', though I'd hardly say that's a livin'."

"Fink's docks?" I asked, watching the breeze whipping his short hair. Clean-shaven, the burly fellow had that glow common to his countrymen but an otherwise decent look.

"Jerimiah Fink, Sir, though I say I've never personally met the man. I be rather low on the totem pole, if ya know what I mean."

"Still, Fink..."

"You might know his trade, Sir..." He said, gesturing upward toward the gray overhang of the Lady. "All manner of devices of the mechanical nature, sold in bulk to the citizens of the fair city and financially gifted notables of the world, this vessel being a fine example." With a pause he glanced outward, chewing as he spoke. "He also owns the only plant in the world for the manufacture of lift cells."

#

I headed back to my quarters thinking about lift cells. I was no engineer nor airship pilot but it seemed they were mighty important to the working of things Columbia. Needing to relieve myself, I set about looking for a convenient latrine. Well pleased to find one I ducked within, only to be met by a Negro inside with the strangest look upon his face. "Pardon me, Sir..." I heard a toilet flush and another dark skinned fellow stepped from the urinal behind a white wooden partition. "But you might want to go jus' down the hall there. This, well..." He stammered. "This is the colored folks' stalls."

I'm certain I looked to him as though I'd been struck by a stone. In the Bowery the matter of race often reared its ugly head but I'd never seen a 'colored' toilet before...where I came from, they all smelled the same. Escorting me gently by the sleeve, he pointed down the hall as a couple of men came round the far corner. "White boy's restroom jus' down the way."

Eventually I located my stateroom with a lot on my mind, wondering what kind of backward place I was headed to. It didn't matter...I didn't want to like Columbia. I only wanted to get the damned girl and get out. _Columbia_...flying city. The very concept give me a headache. It was the city that gotten away, yet at the same time I was certain that I'd never heard of it. What was going on with my mind? I took a drink of water and lay down...closed my eyes.

It didn't seem like much time passed but the clock showed an hour later when the Lady's steamy trumpet blew. As the realization dawned that my trip was nearing an end, I decided to see what the commotion was about. Braving the edge of my balcony doors I could see ahead to some degree, though not as keenly as upon the ship's prow. There a mile away amid the clouds, and I swear _atop_ them, appeared the spires and parapets of a city, perhaps half the size of Manhattan or more. Below its waterline, or _cloud_ line, a solid spit of gray bedrock jutted seaward like a keel, supported by a forest of girders in an ornate latticework. Mist trailed from its length, curling and spinning amid a dizzying array of windmills and underhanging structures. Atop it in the cloud swept heights buildings towered, a handful as high as or even taller than the Woolworth.

A hay pile of clouds were spilling about this metropolis, gradually thinning to reveal the city was in fact comprised of a dozen 'islands,' all arrayed at varying altitudes about this more massive Staten Island shaped wedge. Zeppelins and other air vessels plied the lanes above her, glinting with color. Above the city center another island hung, eight airships moored along its two gantries like Grand Central. All I could do was stare, at least until something more interesting caught my eye. Captured in sunlight as she emerged from raft of pink cumulus, a slender angel appeared, wings impossibly wide and regal, arms outstretched, looming over the city as a guardian.

Columbia indeed.


	4. Chapter 4 Welcoming Committee

**4\. Welcoming Committee**

 _The First Lady_ inched to a halt alongside _RMS Lucanic_ , a British liner whose pennants and Union Jack were rigid in the winds aloft. The unshielded gale was strong at this altitude, whipping across the oncoming yards and passenger terminal as onlookers within the glass waved hankies and little flags.

To the left and right the echelon of airships seemed to ride the gust like ships at anchor, rising and falling but oddly stable for the intensity of the blow. What little luggage I had I took in hand, joining the multitude's disembarkation. Thankfully there were many boarding arms, unlike the single gangway we'd endured in New York. As we crossed I didn't make the mistake of looking down.

Mixing with the crowd inside the terminal I let my heart slow. Here large numbers of people, including the family I'd dined with before, had congregated about a handful of men and women in black and white robes. Sensing religion I steered well clear, insinuating myself with a mix of businessmen making their way towards Customs.

The Aerodrome, as I heard my new mates refer to it, was a round building surmounted by a great rotunda. About its encircling promenade high glass windows stood watch over the main arm, a dozen radiating gangways and frankly, oblivion. As we trod the outward curve of stonework towards Columbia's inevitable authorities, I could hear the wind howling outside, thick clear glass creaking against its ceaseless bid to gain entry. Despite being sheltered we were high aloft and the outer circumference of the port was palpably chilly.

I continued, noticing a bit of a stir outside along one of the gangways, pulling my jacket and work gloves on against the outer chill. A large party had gathered before a smaller airship...an ornate one. Amongst its number, rather at it center, I recognized my acquaintance Morgan and his wife from the night before. Pressed onward by the flow of the crowd, I found precious little time to watch their embarkation.

Eventually the concourse met its opposite from the other side, joining at a marble stair to an atrium below, fountain and placid reflecting pool circular at its center. Atop the pool's watery ramparts white marbles of Washington, Franklin and Jefferson knelt, toga clad, Franklin offering in his hands a key, Jefferson a scroll...Washington held a saber, hilt first. Nearly twenty feet tall, they surveyed the milliard of people on the tiled rotunda about them. I remembered the scrap of paper in the envelope.

Following my business associates I joined a queue. Many stood beside me, some hopeful, some sullen. My line led to a Columbian officer customs officer, clad in a gold trimmed, olive gray coat, golden belt and wheel cap. A large badge dominated the latter, ' _Columbian Police Authority_ ' reflecting in the polish of its leather brim. A similar brass shield adorned his left breast.

"Good day, Sir. And what might I ask brings you to the White City?"

I set my bags upon the counter before him, returning his smile. "I have business with Fink Industries. A meeting about, uh, lift cells."

"Oh, I see." He took a cursory look inside my bag...sifted my clothes. "Lift cells, eh? You represent a concern in the States?"

"Yes...Pinkerton." Opening my wallet, I flashed my old card. With a grim turn of mouth he seemed to approve. There was, of course, no way for him to know I was lying through my teeth...not, at least, without a wireless to New York.

"Anything else of significance on your person?" I didn't enlighten him as to the sidearm beneath my vest, though from its buldge he must have suspected. For a moment our eyes met. "Pinkerton, eh? Well, I believe Mr. Fink has been expecting you. What with this Fitzroy character having the people in such a fever and all the nasty rumors on the street. Talk of a strike on his plants here and on the Continent, I hear." I didn't reply, instead keeping my mouth shut. Closing my bag, he thrust its leather gently to my chest. "If you need help finding your way, just catch a zepp for Finkton or ask the attendants at the gondola out of here down to Emporia..." He extended his hand, a crooked finger unfurling toward the exit. "Just down the promenade. Either should do. And if you need help anywhere else, just ask a Constable. They're always helpful."

"Thank you kindly." I concluded and walked off.

Amid a sea of hats I was the odd man out, even more so when the promenade dumped us into the Aerodrome's Welcome Center. The Rotunda's stained glass atrium was obviously dedicated to the Founders and this Elder Comstock, whom over the last day or so I'd gleaned to be the self-proclaimed 'Father of Columbia.' As I looked at the man's image in the glass, the sun seemed to catch the reds quite strikingly. Unexpectedly my head swam, my balance wobbled and the whole of the Aerodrome listed. In the swoon I had the oddest vision of a skyline, caught in the blinding light of the sun, after a moment seeing the light not that of the sun but a city aflame.

New York City.

I don't know how long I'd been standing in the sanctuary when finally I realized my place. I do know that passersby were looking at me. With my hand I leaned back upon a statue to find blood coming from my nose. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my jacket, regaining my bearings. Avoiding the nearby baptismal chapel, one that was doing brisk business with my fellow new arrivals, I hastened from the Rotunda, out through a colonnade and to the fresh-aired outdoors. My head ached and I tried hard to understand what had just happened...what I'd just seen. To no avail. Whatever it was, I needed McSorley's or the next best thing to it. Seeking a landmark to figure out where the hell I was, I spied a sign welcoming me to " _The Garden at New Eden Square_." Somewhere in the distance I heard fireworks going off. For a moment I froze, feeling the hair standing on the back of my neck. I knew what they were, but that never seemed to help. Turning my collar against the wind I caught myself with hand on a nearby tree and headed onward.

#

Outside the garden I followed my fellow new arrivals to a broad circle, at the center of which towered the marble statue of a man in greatcoat fifty feet tall. Beard caught in turn of head, he grasped in his upraised hand a sabre as if for war. About the circle trolley stops marked each adjoining street, all heavily attended. A ring of brickwork shops rose about them three stories tall, shelter against the diabolical wind that snapped the festive pennants and flags on poles above. Advertised upon these establishment's sturdy brick walls was everything from soap to meat. Upon one, a place named _Hudson's_ , I saw the name _Saltonstall_ , emblazoned in a scroll of black backed white paint. Beside me a couple was passing, arms entwined, muttering something about the statue's likeness or lack thereof. My stomach was angry. Against my better judgment, I approached.

"Excuse me, would you mind telling where I could get something to eat?"

After a moment the man realized that I was talking to him. "Oh, good day. Fancy a bite to eat? Well...which way are you going?"

"Emporia?" I gambled.

With a turn of cane the gentleman gestured down the widest boulevard, a tree lined avenue that shaded a central strip of grass and flower beds. At its end loomed another rise of buildings. "That certainly narrows it down." He chuckled. "Well, if you're looking for something quick, you've chosen the _right_ day, which just happens to be _the_ anniversary of Secession! Just down the way you'll find gondola service down to Emporia and the Fairgrounds. Of course, all of the islands are celebrating today, so food and sundries will be plentiful everywhere, but the _Fairgrounds_ will be the place to be. If you're looking for more _refined_ fare, or perhaps something quick, there is the Blue Ribbon. It's just down the way here, at the end of the trolley line. Charlene thinks it _especially_ fine. Don't you think so, Dear?"

"Oh, I _do_." With pale hand she patted the back of her up done hair. "It _is_ lovely, though a bit early for dinner. I take it that you're not here for the fair?"

"No, not exactly, Ma'am. Business."

"Do you mind me prying as to what sort?"

"Actually, yes." I winced. "Uh, sorry, that, uh...came out wrong." I followed up seconds later. "I just...meant that I...didn't think you'd find it interesting."

"We find all manner of endeavor interesting, good Sir." The man said with a straighten of his tie. "We were only hoping to make your visit a little more pleasant."

The wife grinned, spun her parasol before the breeze grabbed it. "Absolutely." She said, clawing it back with consternation. "Picking the right events to attend and places to indulge on a day like today is serious business, you know. You can't be everywhere at once...you'll _always_ miss something."

I thanked them and headed across the way, dodging boys chancing fate with fireworks and the still heavy crowd. As I approached its stop a well-attended electrified trolley was waiting. I boarded it, clattering afterward down prominently announced 'Aerodrome Avenue.'

After a few minutes it came to a halt beneath an edifice named _Vanderwald's_. Disembarking, I headed for the railing that surrounded the gondola station's landing. I'd thought we'd been high up at Grand Central, but here the view was stupefying. With reticence I approached the railing of the veranda, panning about to take in Columbia's skyline. Precisely like Lionel's picture its buildings and industry seemed to fly on cloud...but this was no photograph. Instead it was real and in the most brilliant color. How such an engineering was possible boggled the mind, and though the science of it eluded me the beauty did not.

In a near continuous arc marvels of brick poked through the clouds, blue rooves with white trim. Above, sleek and powerful airships glinted in their transit of the spaces between the islands. Looking downward I could see the main island, streets teeming with traffic between soaring edifices every bit worthy of Manhattan. Upon its rim a handful of stacks were unusually dormant.

As they boarded the gondola my fellow passengers held their hats, the doubtful conveyance rocking in the gust. I'd heard of these things, used on the ski slopes of Europe. Judging by the myriad of wind-singing lines that arced between the separate enclaves of the city they seemed the preferred way of travel. I neither liked Europe nor cable cars. Redoubled in my intent to find a stiff drink before I took the ride, I found not far from the gondola station the restaurant the man and his wife had recommended. Along the way a handbill pasted upon a Vandervald's brickwork bearing wall caught my eye:

" _You shall know the False Shepherd_

 _by his mark!"_

Emblazoned upon the back of a gnarled hand were the letters " _AD_ ".

"Are you all right, Mister?" A boy was looking at me, black haired in jacket and knickers, face concerned at my obvious shock.

"Yeah, kid. I'm fine." I said, mind reeling. "But thanks for asking."

"Anytime, Sir." He smiled and waved, looking back over his shoulder as he skipped off to join his trio of friends. They headed off to a nearby candy store. Judging by the poster's stain and fray it looked as to have been placed some time ago. Deciding the drink was going to be a double, I mounted the steps and entered the Ribbon.

They didn't accept greenbacks, but to my surprise I found Laslowe's coins the legal tender of Columbia. Called Silver Eagles, each had upon its face a sword, set upon a key, set upon a scroll. The reverse bore the sabre wielding image of the Angel Columbia. One of my remaining twenty three bought me two shots of decent whiskey at the bar and a handsome rack of spare ribs to boot. The sign outside the entrance had advertised them with a man riding a pig, extoling the 'finest quality,' and as I sat digesting the evidence I had no reason to doubt. Toward the front a lean but well-dressed piano player hammered out patriotic melodies to a modest noontime crowd. Firecrackers still popped in the distance, but thankfully his music drowned them out. Finally, I had time to think.

Outside through the window I saw cloud passing, ephemeral streamers whipping through the streets. As they cleared I could see in the distance the golden tower of Columbia. I took out the card and the photograph, looked at the girl's profile. " _Return safely to New York_." Read Laslowe's handwriting, scrawled hastily in black ink upon the back. Who was he, and who the hell was I working for?

It didn't matter. As I returned the papers to my vest I heard other guests talking about the Irish like they were plague. Despite their laughter, the more I listened the more it seemed their denigration veiled ill-ease, with whispered worries about the 'present state of affairs' and rumors of 'unrest among the blacks and mulattoes.' One of the men I heard mutter that it was the 'Founders' fault, Comstock's in particular.' There was a mention of the shuttering of rival churches and the deportation of dissenting congregations. From the evil looks that followed and silence of a nearby family, I garnered his opinion unwelcome.

I stepped up to the bar and got the attention of the bartender, a middle aged man whose name on my first round I'd discovered to be MacCaffrey. I handed him another Eagle and he splashed me some Hayner, turning back four bits and asking if I was new in town.

"Just in off the boat." I replied, draining the glass with upturned chin. I was pleasantly warm now, looking to be warmer by the time I spread my wings once more.

"Well, fella, make sure you smile and keep your head low in Columbia...it ain't the shining beacon the postcards make it out to be."

"Isn't it?" I muttered beneath my breath, surveying the crowd from the corner of my eye.

"Good grief, I do believe it's Mr. DeWitt." The words came from behind me and I cringed.

The voice was familiar but only vaguely, and not that of MacCaffrey. That _anything_ here was familiar, let alone _two_ , was unnerving. Glacially I turned to my left and discovered Andrew Edmonton having joined me at the bar.

"Would you like a drink, friend?" MacCaffrey asked, bushy mustache tweaking as he spoke.

"Indeed..." Edmonton smirked, studying the shot glass I'd thwacked to the lacquered bartop. "I'll have one of what _he's_ having." For a moment he appeared preoccupied, not with the drink but my gloved hand. Faintly he coughed, cleared his throat. I saw MacCaffrey's subtle turn of ear from where he'd been putting the fifth up. "Perhaps we should chat." Edmonton continued, gesturing toward a vacant, out of the way table. Neither wishing to cause a stink nor to be distracted from my task, I grimaced. "Before you put me off..." He said with a raise of hand. "I would like you to know that I believe we have much in common."

"In common?" I said, perusing his straw hat, matching white pants and jacket. Edmonton was handsome in a thin way, made more so by his neatly trimmed hair and straight teeth.

"Indeed." He tapped the bar once more for MacCaffrey's attention. Garnering the shot he'd been waiting for, he tapped again, procuring another for me. "We're both here on a mission. I presume you're American?" With a draw of his hand he pulled a tapestry to half encompass our retreat, tucking us away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

"Generally." I answered, taking a seat, still wary of the man's approach. "And I presume you're English?"

"How ever did you guess?" He chuckled with a thin smile. "The reason I ask is that loyalties tend to be divided in New Jerusalem. I suppose that it is poetic justice that you and your countrymen have had to deal with a secession of your own, but I wouldn't want to rile you before I make my proposal." In no mood to be toyed with, I stood. He caught my forearm. "And I believe _your_ loyalties are particularly suspect, considering the adornment on the back of your hand."

I glared at him, looked down to see my work glove askew. Pulling it tightly to my wrist, I settled back into the seat. "What the hell do you know about this?"

"Very little. Other than what I'd noticed at dinner last night. And the posters slapped all over the Aerodrome. I'd actually hoped to learn more from the so-called 'False Shepherd' himself."

He'd spoken quietly those words, but in light of the Columbian 'artwork' their pronouncement made me cringe. "I ain't no False Shepherd, pal. And I ain't got no idea why that wallpaper had my hook on 'it."

"Would you mind me asking those letters' meaning, then, seeing as it seems to be a great coincidence that the Prophet himself has seemed fit to condemn you over them?"

"I _do_ mind you asking. Get to your damned point."

"Mr. DeWitt...I am uncertain as to how well versed you are in the matter of politics, but certain parties are quite concerned about the notion that there might be an unpleasantness here. You are aware of affairs on the Continent?"

"Which one?" I sneered.

"The only one that matters." Downing his shot, he glanced out the frontage window to the mid-morning sunlight. "Should the Bolsheviks gain a toehold here, or heaven forbid depose the legitimate authorities, the Lutece Liftworks might be compromised along and with them the Crown's capacity to procure irreplaceable lift cells. The Empire's battle fleets are growing, Mr. DeWitt, and we need free trade with both America and Columbia. Insurgency is the gateway to anarchy and _not_ in the interest of either the Crown, America nor the Columbian governance, regardless of whether or not this is American soil.

"I keep hearing about these Lift cells. Mind enlightening me as to what they are?"

Edmonton smirked. "The method by which not only Columbia but modern airships' buoyancies are made neutral. Surely you didn't suspect hot air balloons to be the mode of levitation?"

I paused. "I don't give a damned how the city flies, Edmonton, and I think our business is finished." Again I rose and again he caught my forearm. "Do that again..." I hissed, and I'll rip your arm right out of its socket."

"No need to be angry, Mr. DeWitt." He said hands raised. After a moment of locked eyes he invited me back into my seat. "But surely you realize that the leadership of this city has not been able to forestall the might of the United States government for all these years without _some_ Providence? They do call him a _Prophet_ , after all...one who has _the sight_. Perhaps..." He said sardonically, looking again at my gloved hand.

"I ain't done nothin' to get anyone after me."

"Perhaps you haven't..." Edmonton smirked with a nod toward my hand. "At least, not _yet_."

#

Despite my desire to ditch him, Edmonton and I departed the Ribbon together, the Brit trailing until he caught me up at the thinned Gondola crowd. Following Edmonton's conjecture I couldn't help but notice the men in green upon the streets here and the park below, looking at people's mitts...comparing them to scraps of paper that featured a rough sketch of a man's face.

"It seems I might have been correct in my assumptions. You didn't exactly tell Saltonstall the real name of your family friend last night, did you?"

"Sure I did." I tried to remember what I'd said. "Walter Pigeon."

"You're certain it wasn't Walter _Pinkerton_?"

"What do you want?" I growled, wondering how the hell he'd gleaned onto my Customs angle.

"Mr. DeWitt..." He whispered. "I assume that you are acting at your Government's behest. Comstock has an eye for American spies and therefore _you_. We should establish an alliance for our mutual benefit."

An agent for the _government_? Mutual _benefit_? I almost laughed. "You were watching me at Customs. I didn't see you."

"I have a keen eye." He smirked. "Still, I find it interesting that an agent would bear the prophesied mark. By the way, my sources inform that Mr. Fink has been expecting you for days now. There have been rumors of labor unrest."

"Expecting me? You think I can get you access to him."

"Actually, I was more thinking the Liftworks itself."

If Edmonton believed I was still with the Eye or one of Roosevelt's goddamned G men, I figured I might as well play along. "Hate to break it to you, but that was just an excuse to get me into the city. I'm not here for this Fink or your lift cells." As we boarded, my grip upon the hand railing seemed to inform Edmonton about my affliction with heights.

"Interesting. I believe he shall be most disappointed. If not them, what is a Pinkerton doing in Columbia?"

"None of your business." I muttered, stepping toward the fore of the filling car.

"I see." As the gondola detached from the landing he cast a glance outward. We began to descend like a drunken sailor.

My stomach lurched.

The Brit's eyes scanned the approaching skyline. Below I could see us headed toward the island's rim of grassy parkland. Toward its center verdant woodlands were split by narrow lanes, encompassing here and there the occasional small lake. A multitude plied those streets and knolls, milling amid tents, bunting, and red, white and blue balloons. To the south the city proper's skyscrapers towered in a forest, a mirror of lower Manhattan.

"This 'family relative' wouldn't happen to be the occupant a certain tower, would she?" Edmonton smirked. "Oh, don't act so surprised...I've seen so many tracts on this 'Lamb' that your head would spin. If not the Liftworks then it surely your goal must be the tower. They _will_ catch you, you know."

"Not everyone's seen the posters."

"But they shall the handbills, thanks to the efficiency of Columbia's Constabulary. Those are not Comstock's only methods, either, my friend. The old trickster was able to elude your countrymen for _years_ before Dewey finally caught him up, and you have no White Fleet behind _you_. I'll tell you what, old fellow. I too have a passing interest in this tower, as our best men seem to think it might be part of Columbia's power puzzle. Let's make a deal. Because I have interest, I'll assist you in your endeavor. In return you shall help me with access to Fink and his properties. He is, after all, expecting you."

I didn't like working with others and I didn't like debt. "Power puzzle?"

"Surely you've noticed the dormant stacks of old coal plants about the city? Lutece cells require power to function, and for a metropolis such as this that bill must be substantial. Yet...the coal plants have been shuttered. My government finds this a great mystery, one we wish to unravel. As you know, London is not celebrated for its fresh air."

Pointing toward the opposite side of the city, Edmonton marked clusters of said smokestacks, all of which I had to agree were unusually idle even for a holiday. His hand carried onward, out along a high bulwark. Above its rim soot stained, thousand-foot monoliths hung three in a row. Until now the clouds had concealed these behemoths' scale, but with the vapor's passing I saw that they exceeded even the most gargantuan edifices of New York. Without even the support of bedrock they hung there, enormous pillars in the sky surrounded by a lower crust of habitation that trailed into the heavenly distance.

"There's your plants." I said, glancing at the numerous power cables strung along floating stanchions to them.

"Sorry, but that's Finkton." Skirting the uppermost fifth of the towers snaked a periphery of docks, a myriad of small craft along them in the air and at berth. Not waterfronts... _skyfronts_. In the brickworks' lee plumes of black smoke issued.

"Finkton?"

"And Shantytown trailing off from it. So, furnaces, yes, power stations, no. The smoke comes from chimneys for industry...Fink's smelters."

"What about that brick affair with the white quoins on the north end...the one with the glasswork roof?"

"That, old chap, is the Liftworks proper." He said, nodding towards a prominent cluster of nice that rose from the less than nice about it. "The slums below it are where we need to go. I have contacts there." I looked away, wary of the others in the car. Below people milled at the park side station, awaiting the return lift up. "So...do we have a deal?"

As the gondola jostled into the Fairgrounds landing I turned to face him. The doors opened and the crowd piled out, leaving us alone. He' offered his outstretched hand. "You seem a solid fellow, Edmonton, but I'm afraid I work alone. Good luck with Fink..." I turned and walked off, brushing past the puzzled conductor. "As far as the Liftworks...I'm sure you'll find a way."

#

Leaving the Brit disabused of any notion of cooperation I slipped through the waiting throng. The day was bright and cheery as my boots ground the brick, blue skies arching above with nary a cloud in the sky. High over the Atlantic it was cool, cool enough to relish the warmth of the sun.

About the northern rim of the park airside shops and buildings rose much like the Aerodrome, each a handful of stories, similar in architecture to any one might find on Main Street Peoria. For the holiday people were attired in their Sunday best, ladies elegant on their husband's arms, children frolicking as they strolled tree lined streets. To my left the park rolled, grassy hills and glinting lakes, sunken amid copses of wood.

 _Comstock Gardens_ , a sign arched overhead in calligraphic iron letters. Above it and the treetops to the south rose the brick and concrete clad heights of Emporia, glass windows gleaming in the late morning sun. Amongst the fair goers wandered olive uniformed men armed with brass badges and Billy clubs. It seemed that a uniformed man of some sort stood upon every corner. Scanning back to the spires of Emporia's downtown, I saw something else...the wings of my angel rising above the skyline.

Wandering toward a dias that housed a glass covered woodcut of the park, I found after a moment's search a trolley on the park's eastern embankment. Unfortunately my escape from Edmonton had deposited me upon Emporia's _western_ flank, an airy outlook dedicated to quaint walks, ornate balustrades, and yawning terror. Far below I could see ocean.

It was a long way down.

I emerged from a knot of holiday goers to discover a check point ahead, the two Constables manning it pouring over a metal and leather arm brace. At its end a triple hook spun furiously. Choosing a lesser traveled path, I found myself in a thin copse, emerging from its overhanging boughs to a congregation near the Garden's center.

The terrain ran downward here in a shallow bowl, and beyond the milling waves of picnickers and families I could make out a whitewashed bandstand, rising fifty or so feet a quarter mile away at the bottom. Upon its wooden flanks pristine Columbian pennants snapped and furled, caught in the breeze. The organizers had some sort of loudspeakers at its sides, and in scratchy tones I could heard an announcer detailing in folksy yarn the upcoming events of the day.

Motioning skyward, he stretched out his hand to point at four approaching zeppelins, each about three hundred feet in length. All were heavily armed. As their drone captured the attention of the thousands assembled the people began to clap and cheer. The smaller three were led by a more powerful ship before them, gray and black and twice as long. Behind its armed length trailed a red, white and blue pennant emblazoned with the city's solitary white star. Though bred for battle on this day all were dispensing fireworks and sparkles, trailing favors behind them high in the air, men on the decks waving and tossing a rainbow of confetti and candy from the sky. They passed overhead perhaps a hundred feet, horns blaring, sending the copious hordes of nearby children into frenzy. A piece of salt water taffy nearly struck me in the eye. Now I knew why all of the gentlemen and ladies had insisted upon hats.

Up on the stage the Marshal, a dark haired man in fine attire, ventured forth from the knot of dignitaries to the assembly's renewed applause. With a finger of his handlebar mustache he praised Columbia's 'Aerial Squadron' before announcing the city's elders and visiting dignitaries. Behind him those bigwigs looked on, ten men including to my surprise Saltonstall and Morgan, whom he introduced as "James Pierpont." Despite his composure my acquaintance from the night before seemed ill at ease. Beside him in the position of honor stood another man in dark coat and heavy shoulders, one with a beard and mustache of purest white. I'd seen this man on posters. His statue towered just outside the Aerodrome and New Eden above.

Comstock.

The priest beside him strode forth upon the stage and raised his hands. At his approach the thousands quieted, leaving only the sound of bells ringing in the distance. "Shhhh! I heard a mother quiet her two sons next to me. "Father Witting is going to lead us in prayer!" Retreating backwards toward the movers and shakers, the dark haired man smiled and surrendered the microphone with a squealing tip of his silken top hat.

"God's chosen, shall we bow our heads in prayer?" Upon the stage the row of men followed suit, hats in hand before them. "Every year on this day of _days_ we recommit ourselves to our city and the vision of our Prophet, Father Comstock." The breeze teased the bony eyed preacher's thin hair. "We recommit through _sacrifice_ and the giving of thanks and by submerging ourselves in the sweet waters of Baptism. Today we count our blessings, and they are manifold! Should we count them?"

"Amen!" The crowed replied, a wave of sound washing the valley. My voice was not among them.

Witting smiled. "Yea, we shall count them! _If_ the Prophet had struck down our enemies and not railed against the Sodom beneath us, _it_ would have been enough. If the Prophet had _just_ railed against the Sodom beneath us, but not accepted the three golden gifts of the Founders, _it_ would have been enough. If the Prophet had just accepted the three golden gifts of the Founders and _not_ prayed for our deliverance, _it_ would have been enough! If the Prophet had only prayed for our deliverance and _not_ led us to this New Eden, _it_ would have been enough! _If_ the Prophet had just led us to the New Eden and _not_ purged the Vipers of the Orient, _it_ would have been enough. If the Prophet had just purged the Vipers of the Orient and not given us the Lamb, it would have been enough. But the Prophet _did_ give us the Lamb, she who shall watch the city and fulfil our destiny!"

There was much praise in the late morning air now, whispers of Amen and Hallelujah. "How then shall we repay God's kindness for and the blessings the Prophet has bestowed upon us? With no less than the full measure of our devotion, our thoughts and our prayers! For each of us the Prophet has seen a future, and for each of us in his full devotion it lies within the Glory! Yet, the work at hand is underway but not complete, not until the Sodom below from which we have fled is made right, and by the Prophet's vision all men made closer to God! Amen."

"Amen." Responded the crowd, punctuated by the occasional 'Hallelujah' and, "Praise be to the Prophet!" Witting opened his eyes now and turned, nodding to the bearded man. Beside him to his own entourage Morgan sighed.

With a humble smile the elder ambled forward, up to the microphone and very edge of the stage. Some ten feet up he was, and the people beneath him might have been forgiven for believing they were looking upon the face of the Lord Almighty himself. "Shall I recount the miracle?"

"Yea!" Responded the crowd, eyes enamored of the fellow.

He grinned. "After the great victory at Wounded Knee..." He began, pausing to address the swath of mesmerized citizenry about the bowl. "The Angel Columbia did present herself to me. I said to her, Angel, what hast I done to deserve thy wrath?!" With a smile she said to me that, 'I bear no wrath upon thou, instead I come to show thou a vision, for thou shalt be a Prophet to a new and chosen race.' And what did she show me?"

"A vision of a great city!" The crowd cheered about me, hands raised, all a smile.

Comstock continued, pleased with his flock. "And so with my divine task I gathered the minds and resources and faith to lead our people away from the Sodom below into a new land, a land of God's making and construction. Here in the clouds he has created that even more perfect union! And how could that have happened without God's blessing? Had it not been for him, I should not have had the resources to support the building of Columbia in the first place, and were it not for him, the World's Exposition might have sought another venue! Were it not for him, the American Congress, venomous snakes though they are, might never have appropriated the funds to support the building of the White City and were it not for him, I might never have met the brilliance that have made this White City _fly_! And had _not_ the brilliance that made the White City fly been nurtured, our escape from the sinful world below would not have occurred!"

"This day of days we celebrate our separation, our _independence_ from the land that birthed us, the land that fouled its holy and august Fathers by falling into decadence and willful sin, from the waters of life into unholy debauchery. How good it is to be shed of that burden!"

"Amen!" The crowd shouted sporadically

"How good it is to be shed of that sin, and to live a life for God!"

"Amen!"

"How good it is that that life has _purpose_ , to live for others, to bring those with an ear _also_ to God! Yet, I am saddened to say that this is a long work, and though holy one I see shall not be completed in the years left to me."

At this mention I cocked an eye...though the man was wizened, he did not seem in ill health. Cries of " _No!_ " wafted several fold from the hillocks of people, and I could tell Comstock's words had not been ones they'd intended to hear.

"Only God knows a man's final day, and I leave it to him to decide mine, yet I know this...much as Moses was not allowed into the Promised Land, _I_ shall not be permitted to see the resumption of our ties with the old home. That task...the task of purification...is reserved for _her_ and her _alone_ , our Lamb, our _Miracle Child_. It shall be _she_ who secures the future of this city and its people." He turned, looking over the trees behind the surrounding thousands to the wings of Columbia upon the skyline. "It shall be _she_ who leads the people of the Sodom below into Righteousness!"

"Let us see the Lamb!" Someone shouted from the crowd, which I felt more like a congregation than happy go lucky assembly. "When shall we see her?!"

"Soon." Comstock said with raised hands and smile. "For I know you wait anxiously. In keeping with God's will she shall be revealed in due time...when the time of her danger is passed. That time, I am afraid, is _not_ yet. When she comes to my side, it shall be in glories unseen since Moses parted the Red Sea, for I assure you that _God_ walks with her!"

I'd gotten now an uneasy feeling about this whole affair, and wishing to be on with my affairs slipped off through the knots of people. Few were leaving so my slow but steady exodus turned heads. Comstock had continued speaking, though I was no longer listening to his tripe. 'Victory at Wounded Knee?' The papers had had a field day with that in '91. Were these fools blind as well as dumb? Just as I'd made my way through the bulk of assembled idiots the hair stood upon the back of my neck. Slowly I turned, looking over shoulder to see the old man looking directly at me.

"One man goes into the waters of Baptism..." He said, eyes fixated. "A different man comes out. Born again! But who is that man who lies submerged? Perhaps that man is both sinner and saint, until he is revealed unto the eyes of man." I froze. After a tense moment his eyes moved on, searching the crowd as he continued speaking.

With the majority of the fair goers behind me I hastened along, plowing away from him up the tree lined path. Ahead I heard sound and came to a meadow to find a barbershop quartet singing upon a sparsely attended stage. About me a man and his wife stood, boy in hand at the skirt of her dress. A sign announced:

' _Columbia's Albert Fink presents'_

" _God Only Knows"_

' _Columbia's Gayest Quartet Barbershop Quartet!'_

They were singing a song I'd never heard. Though pleasing, I had little time for such things...time was wasting and I no closer to the girl. With the gathering still in progress I figured a good portion of the populace would be out of my way, yet the urban canyons of Columbia still loomed ahead. If I were to make any progress, I would have to find another trolley or other form of conveyance.

Twin brick columns announced the Fairgrounds proper, the section's prominent signage calling the area out as the 'Carnival.' To either side of its twisting lane lay whimsical attractions, one booth encouraging me to "Cast the Out the Devil," while a nearby shop peddled "Voxophone recordings." Behind it I noticed a tent of the _Columbia Flag Company_ , draped like the bandstand with various buntings of the same and patriotic pennants. Nearby a woman sung 'Wild Prairie Rose.'

There were apparently enough heathens in Columbia to keep these tents in brisk business. I smirked at the human penchant for debauchery, right up until I was struck fast by a true carnival act.

Ahead of me to the right a giant of a man stood upon stage, outsized mechanical arms, feet and legs topped by a smallish human head. Were it not for the ridiculousness of the sight I might have been terrified...he looked nothing less than a mechanical ape. " _Live Forever with Betterman's Autobodies_ " the tent's sign advertised, and in vertical calligraphy, " _The Amazing Handyman!_ " This wasn't amazing...it was abomination. As the crowd surged and flowed about the exhibit a photographer took pictures. Much like an ape might do the poor man cringed. How was such a thing even possible? Within his chest I spied something even more gruesome...a crystal window to a pulsing, beating heart.

Sickened by this and wondering how anyone could so rob a man of his life, I hastened down an adjoining street accurately christened " _Shady Lane_." Amongst the thousands whom I'd served with in the Dakotas, I pondered which commander Comstock had served under. It certainly hadn't been Forsyth, I knew his men. Nor Miles. Both of them had suffered Congress' withering wrath for the debacle. But who else could it have been?

Passing a horse drawn ice wagon, I followed the sound of drums and brass to the side of a major thoroughfare. Down its broadly bricked swath the Columbian Band was marching, a sinuous snake of red, white and blue through Emporia's bustling downtown. It could only have come from the park, as floats followed with thousands of gleeful people in tow. I'd dallied at the carnival too long.

Venturing down an arbored way, I passed three boys at play at an open hydrant, water running down street into a sewer grate. How was I going to get across that river of people? Looking for a way around, not long after I came to a gate guarded by two constables.

"I take it this way is closed?"

One of them smiled. "That's right, fella...closed for your safety. They're prepping tonight's fireworks back there. "There's enough TNT back there to blow Peking to kingdom come...again." Together they chuckled. "You a worker here?"

"No." I answered, glad I'd be not be around for their party. "Just looking for a way around the festivities."

"You mean the parade?" His mate said. "Might try down by the Raffle there. Just east of the Augney Amphitheater is an underpass."


	5. Chapter 5 Lucky 77

**5\. Lucky Seventy Seven**

I found myself ambling through a run of immaculate brownstones afterward, all seemingly emptied at the day's events. Over the low eaves to the east I could see floats of Franklin, Washington and others passing to the south. About them the taller rises were trimmed with patriotic flare. Amid those skyscrapers I noticed pairs of rails suspended midair, moving along their lengths wooden box cars. _Skylines_. America had its railroads...Columbia had these. Here and there off building sides the rails were anchored to cantilever beams, but for the most part these rails seemed to hang midair. I'd stopped in the middle of the road.

Ahead to my right I heard people singing to the strains of "Goodnight Irene," several hundred assembled in a grassy park at the bottom of a wide stone stair. The words " _Augney Amphitheater_ " loomed large overhead in iron grille work. To the left my road bent backward towards the parade, vanishing in a throng of cheering onlookers. As I'd trod south it had become obvious that not all of Emporia's residents had attended their Prophet's address. Now I realized _most_ hadn't...instead they'd been assembling the parade route for hours. How the hell was I going to get to the Monument? It had to be the Augney.

Descending the stone steps I unexpectedly passed a man I recognized from the park, seeing occasionally other familiar faces. How they'd gotten here so quickly I'd no idea, but figuring that out seemed an excellent goal. Just after noon the day had warmed and I took a seat near the rear of the assembly in the shade of high oaks. Frustration egged my mind...Columbia was a lot larger than I'd reckoned for and I'd not even gotten to the damned tower yet. Amid fanfare a man took the stage, the same top hatted fellow that had introduced Witting and Comstock in the Gardens. With shirtsleeve I wiped my brow and looked south, spying along a descending footpath the 'under passage' the coppers had mentioned. About that time a pretty blonde in white blouse and blue skirt sidled up to me as she had been doing others, wicker basket of baseballs in hand. I'd been about to leave but in that moment our eyes met. Not wishing to stand out, I took one in hand. ' _77_ ' it read. I rose, scanning the citizenry as the announcer proclaimed that Columbia's 14th Annual Raffle would now have its draw. I didn't care, but as I slipped through the crowd I heard my number called and cringed.

For a moment I thought I might still elude this fate, but beside me a woman shouted, "There he is...there's number 77!" Suddenly hundreds of eyes turned upon me.

"Well, go on up!" A white haired lady said at my side, men and women alike encouraging me to front and center. Glacially I turned and approached the stage. To my right an Assemblyman introduced himself as Buford and shook my hand, grinning ear to ear. On stage even the presenter was smiling.

"Well, son, this is your lucky day!" What's the name?" The announcer said.

"Smith. John Smith." I answered, taciturn.

"Well, Mr. Smith...you've won Columbia's annual Raffle!" As he beamed two stagehands drew the stage curtains back, revealing prop cutouts of palm trees, jungles and garish smiling monkeys hanging upon them. One wore lip paint. Another, hanging prominently from a branch, seemed to be a Minister. The bridal march began to play, and off to the sides I could see stagehands pulling ropes to draw the faux foliage away. A white man and black woman emerged from the backstage upon a moving platform, he dressed in a threadbare mockery of a groom's tuxedo vest and she in a burlap sack. The Negro woman couldn't have been more than twenty. Both were tied to posts, pleading for their lives.

The announcer and Buford grinned at me. "You get the first pitch, son...make it a good one!"

It dawned upon me that they'd expected me to throw the ball at this couple, whose 'crime' seemed simple affection. It also dawned on me from the pregnant air of this gathering that the crowd was all for it and about to follow my lead. New York had its posher neighborhoods, and things such as this were generally frowned upon in moneyed society...but it wasn't a lynch mob mentality like the Deep South. With his waxed handlebar mustache and beady eyes, the gleeful announcer seemed a far better target. Rearing back, I winged it into his bony forehead and knocked him right out from beneath his glossy stovepipe. "Oops..." I said. "I missed."

With the announcer on the ground a gasp rose from the crowd of would be murderers. A woman had cried out, shielding her children from my "heinous" act. Men were standing in shock. Through the crowd a Constable approached then another, vengeance in their eyes. Spying number _77_ bloody upon the grass, I snatched it in hand and whipped it into the nearest. Bracketed by the gob smacked crowd, he had nowhere to turn. Like Fink the ball struck him in the face and sent him down.

Arms grasped me from behind and more Constables were on the way. I'd been here before...at the Rocks. As the next two olive jackets approached, I stepped backward on one leg and took my grappler to the ground. Despite being a decent pitcher, I realized I was also an idiot.

"My God, its him!" I heard the other cry out, pointing at my hand. In the melee my right glove had come off, revealing the brand upon the back of my hand. Furious didn't begin to describe these people now...their eyes sought to tear me limb from limb. "It's the False Shepherd!"

"Get him. _GET HIM_!" I heard from the advancing crowed. With an elbow to his face I knocked the first back, rolled the grass and came up with my revolver in hand. The next had one of those skyline hooks spinning before him, intent to jam it in my face.

My gun went off with a crack. Across the grassy basin people screamed and turned to run. As they fled the man dashing at me fell forward...I'd have said face forward, but by the time he hit the sod he no longer had one. Slumping to the grass in a pool of blood, his demise chastened the fellow after him, who drew back...again with one of those hook things. Holding my weapon upon him, I glanced back towards the stage. "Let them go." I said evenly at the men in the gathering who'd opted not to join the stampede. Instead the cop spun that nasty hook with his hand, thinking he'd somehow intimidate me. As he lunged I shot him dead. Now those remaining decided that joining their panicked peers was a better option and turned for the stairs. Striding toward the man who'd introduced himself as Buford, I leveled the gun at his forehead. "Now let's try that again."

"Who...who are you, False Shepherd?" Buford rasped, and I could see his bowtie quivering.

I placed the gun between his eyes. "If you don't do what the hell I say, I'm the angel of death. Untie them _now_." With frightened eyes Buford rose and scampered to the stage.

As Buford untied the man the freed couple looked to me like some miracle had occurred. It had...for Columbia. Once more I'd taken a winning hand and flushed it down the crapper.

"Thank you, Mister." The woman said as her boyfriend undid her bonds. Behind them Buford had backed away, glancing at the carnage below before tending to moaning marshal of ceremonies.

"Get the hell out of here." I groused, bending over to retrieve my strayed glove. I was in no mood for adulation.

"Where will we go!?" She cried. In the direction of the parade route I heard sirens wailing...growing closer.

"How should I know?" I grumbled and began to walk. For some reason I stopped...closed my eyes.

The man took the girl in his arms, looking about. "Oh, for God's sake..." I finally said. "You have to have some friends here in this damned city. Go to _them_."

"Like this?" The woman cried, distressed by their state of clothing. "We'd not make it fifty feet!"

Friends, I thought. Friends who knew this city. I was the one who wouldn't make it fifty feet. Seeing one of the constable's automatics upon the grass, I reached and picked it up, thinking it a Mauser C96...the .45 caliber man killer I'd become so indebted to in the Philippines. Upon perusal it bore the script "Broadsider" upon its grip. A Columbian knockoff. Figuring myself low on ammunition, I hastily gathered a holster from the man who wouldn't be needing it any longer and stuffed my snubnose beneath my vest. "On second thought, let's go."

"You'll...let us come with you?" The man asked, the woman's eyes like his suddenly hopeful.

"For the time being..." I began to jog. "If you can keep up."

#

Within the underpass lamp lit darkness encompassed us, the horns and commotion outside keeping our pace swift. As the sidewalk turned further and angled deeper underground I was disturbed to see not the upswing to the boulevard's other side but a receding passage.

"Whoa!" I said, skidding to a halt. "This isn't what I was expecting."

"What _were_ you expecting?" The man said, looking anxiously behind us toward the emptied amphitheater and corpses. "This is an underpass."

"I was expecting to see the other side of that parade's street up there."

"It's an underpass of _Emporia_." He said, blue eyes darting. "It leads to the rapid transit lines...underground trains and water mains. There are dozens of reservoirs down here along with physical plants, steam plants, just about..."

"How do you know this?" I asked, now realizing how the announcer and crowds had managed to travel here so promptly. Before me I began to see signs.

"I'm a Civil Engineer. I help maintain it."

 _Trains_ , I thought, and cocked an eyebrow. "Well, that's convenient. Maybe you can help. I'm, uh, trying to get that angel on the other side of..."

"Monument Island." The man completed eagerly, running his hand through pale hair with a strange look upon his face. Looking behind us too, I decided the tunnel ahead was better than the dozens of police who'd soon be swarming my handiwork.

"Then what Comstock preaches is true..." The woman added. You're after the Lamb."

"The Lamb?" I said. I stopped and turned to face them. "Look, I don't know who you are, but..."

"James Cavanaugh." The man answered.

"Claire Greene." Replied the woman, who at a noise behind turned back to gaze into the daylight.

"It's all right." He said, hugging her too him.

Not having time for lovey-dovey bullshit, I walked faster. To either side the path was wide enough to pass an automobile, and a breeze at our backs. "Look, I don't know nothin' about any Lamb. I was hired to pull this girl from this tower where she lives, nothing more."

"That's the Lamb." Greene said, eyes very white in the pale underground illuminance. I rolled my own.

"So, you say you're some sort of Engineer?" I asked Cavanaugh. Despite their lack of shoes they were keeping up...fear did that. Luckily these sidewalks were well kept...no trash or debris to damage their bare feet. They would, however, need a washing.

"Yes. I...I worked for Mr. Benefield, the Mayor."

"Comstock's not the Mayor?" I asked, not bothering to look back. Ahead the lights seemed to converge at a station and I could see people milling about. Silently I raised my arm and steered us into an alcove.

"No, but one would be forgiven for thinking he was. He's, well, obviously you've seen."

"Yeah." I said. "What about you?" I asked the girl.

She looked to Cavanaugh. "Claire worked for me in the firm as a cleaning lady...a tremendous waste of talent if you ask me."

"I'm good with numbers." She said and Cavanaugh smiled.

"She's more than 'good with numbers.' Once I realized she was interested in my engineering I started teaching her. I quickly found she was as good as I. She has an innate grasp of...things."

"I was interested in _you_." She said with a smile.

"That's a station up there, isn't it? I doubt we'd do well by barging in there. Is there another way?"

"From here on Ninth? No, that's the first north-south connector...no other way through unless you want to use the sewers."

"Sewers?" I asked.

"They carry Emporia's waste water and run off outward where it's released into the sea."

"Hmmm." I said, not relishing the prospect. "What else?"

"Upward."

Daylight was wasting. At this rate I'd never get anywhere. "Look, I need some help here. Do you know anyone around here that might not only be willing to assist you but be, uh, favorable to my job?"

Greene glanced to me then back toward her man. "What about Archie and Evelyn?"


	6. Chapter 6 Skyrail

**6\. Skyrail**

Following Cavanaugh's advice, we avoided the station and ascended the streets using a utility access ladder, emerging from beneath a manhole cover in a deserted alley. Through the nearby doors of a deserted warehouse I ushered them, while in the distance sirens wailed.

"Okay, so how far away do these friends of yours live?" I asked, peering out through the front doors at the chaos along Main Street.

"Not far...they have a townhouse in the Comstock Center...it's just down the street." Claire said. I noticed her continued study of my person.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing...nothing wrong..." She said in worried tone. "It's just...just that Daisy always said someone like you'd come along."

"Daisy?" I queried with a regrip of the Broadsider, attention turning through split wooden doors to a troupe of police hastening down the sidewalks. Near a department store three men were reeling the float of an odd looking blonde haired boy down onto a truck.

"Daisy Fitzroy. She's the leader of the Vox Populi."

I turned to look at them. "Look, I don't know nothin' about any Daisy Fitzroy or Lamb or Columbian politics. I'm just here for the girl."

Cavanaugh peered through the crack of the doors beside me. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"New York. I'm a private detective there and specialize in cases like this." I said, wondering if one case now made me a 'specialist.'

"Well, my father grew up in Chicago. That's how we came to be here. I don't remember much of it, but, well, you must have noticed that there aren't a whole lot of black folk about."

Now that he mentioned it, I had. I hadn't thought anything of it since the _Lady_. "And your point?"

"Well, that's just..." Outside a noise stymied our conversation...but the noise was from _behind_ us. Forefinger to my nose, I slipped off behind a rise of crates that stepped up toward the ceiling. Finding them easy to mount, I ascended to the top most. Ten feet in the air, it looked out upon a rear window. I motioned the couple to keep talking.

I reached out and levered the window open. Outside in the alley at the warehouse's rear door I saw a man ear to door listening, straw hat in hand. I leaned out the window and took a bead on his head. Just as I was about to fire the crate I'd steadied myself upon shifted. I struck my head on the open window, weapon falling ten feet to the cobble below. The man turned, revealing blond hair and blue eyes.

At the racket he'd produced a clean looking black Steyr raised precisely at my ungainly hang. Seeing it was me, he sighed and lowered it, seating the weapon after a moment in a vest holster. "DeWitt. Fancy meeting you here."

Ass on the sill, I braced myself long enough to respond to his comment. "You've been following me, Edmonton." As I spoke the crate gave way and I down I went, crashing with a bone jarring thud to the ground inside. I heard the rush of feet...saw the concerned eyes of James and Claire hovering over me.

"Not initially, but you made such a damned sensation I just couldn't help myself." His voice carried through the door. "Are you quite all right?"

Sprawled upon the concrete, I felt myself for broken bones. "Couldn't be better."

"Good." The Brit said, opening the door to my charges' surprise. "And not alone." Looking Claire and James over, he seemed hardly fazed despite their attire. "I'd heard Columbia had some unique matrimonial traditions. I take it you were at the Raffle?"

"We _were_ the Raffle." Cavanaugh said, looking to his girl...offering me a hand up.

With his assistance I rose and dusted myself off, my shoulder hurting like the Dickens. "Why are you following me?"

"A fair question. Not that the swath of destruction you've carved was easily avoidable. The truth of the matter is that with your shambolic approach toward this woman in the tower has the city in an uproar. That makes any chance I'd had of obtaining an invitation into the Liftworks legitimate or otherwise unlikely.

"Why should I care about your misfortune?" I brushed myself off, eyeing the pistol in his outstretched hand.

"Yours, I believe?" I checked the load and tuckered it into my holster. "I don't believe we've been introduced." He said, turning to my charges. "Andrew Edmonton, Lloyds of London."

"James Cavanaugh. This is my fiancée Claire. Claire Greene."

"A pleasure to meet you, Madame." Edmonton said with a kiss upon the back of her hand. "We need to see about getting you clothing."

"We're near a friend's house." Claire whispered. We should be able to find help there.

"A friend's house?" Edmonton said with a glance toward my aching wreck. "And you think that perhaps they might be able to help us?"

"There ain't no _us_." I said, walking past the three to look again out the crack of the doors. The streets were empty now, the float and cops gone. Empty enough that we'd stand out.

Edmonton came alongside and with outstretched hand pointed toward a gondola just over the skyline, one that ran upward toward the Angel of Columbia on Monument Island. "That is our destination."

" _Now_ you want to go to the Island?"

"Since _my_ efforts with Fink are confounded, yes. What manner of guards do you think they'll have on it?"

"No idea." I caught my breath. "But worrying about that is putting the ox before the cart...we're going to have to chance the streets." Further down the boulevard, an armed checkpoint was being set up.

"You're a wanted man now, DeWitt...with baggage in tow. Comstock and his renegades were eventually run down, but in the meantime they gained enough of a following here and in the superstitious corners of your fair land to provide him a modicum of immunity. These people believe in their heavenly city and in particular its founder, and who can blame them? He foretells their future and delivers them fortune. Their home flies. I believe they've shown they'll die for him."

"Tell me something new. They've still got to find me."

"Remember the posters." He glanced back at the couple. "Perhaps he spies us even now."

"I don't think so."

"And how can you be so certain of that?"

I eyed him as I stood, wondering if he believed that hokum or was a plant for this old geezer himself. "Cause the cops ain't bustin' down this door. Maybe ole Comstock _can_ see the future, but he can't do it all that well or I'd have had a bullet..." I stopped mid-sentence, suddenly back in the misty alleyway behind McSorley's. "In my brain."

"Are you quite all right?"

I felt a shiver course my body. "Yeah. I'm just fine. Let's get moving."

#

We emerged to a lightly traveled street just off Main, keeping to the walls beneath a skyline above, clunking with passing of box cars. Our route, chosen by the girl, was at least out of sight of the checkpoint. Cavanaugh seemed to follow his woman, who seemed to know her way along the back alleys and lesser used streets better than he. Above us a calligraphic ironwork called out _Comstock Center_. Pasted upon one of its brick pillars a poster depicted the announcer I'd beaned at the Raffle, finger outstretched.

 _Columbia Raffle and Fair!_

 _Jerimiah Fink wants YOU to attend the July 6th Raffle!_

"What is it, DeWitt?" Edmonton asked.

"You wanted to meet Fink." I pointed at the poster. "That's him." I crossed my arms. "Next time I'll have to introduce you."

After waiting out the passage of a Constabulary patrol, Claire brought us down a nearby alley, rounding a cluster of wooden barrels to a back door. Finding a key beneath a loose street brick, she turned the lock and entered. Beyond lay a second door and stairs down. The building we'd entered seemed a residence, and we were careful not to make undue noise. Luckily its halls were empty. Beside a cold stove hung a poster on the wall, that of a black man:

 _A Meeting of the Columbia Friends of the Negro Society._

 _Until the Negro is Equal, None of Us are Equal_

Its display in an unfrequented back room wall didn't bode well. I paused to look at it as Edmonton arrived next to me.

"Getting to know the culture?"

"Yeah." I said, remembering fresh the lavatory and wait staff on the _First Lady_.

Claire had gone on while James paused to look with us. "It's sad, isn't it? In this day and age."

"Not as sad for me as it nearly was for you."

He smirked. Following Claire once more down another flight of stairs, we paused at the corner to the clank and clash of metal behind closed twin doors. They were unlocked, and inside I beheld a pair of modern printing presses, hard at work churning out handbills advertising the upcoming meeting whose poster we'd stumbled across. Treading cautiously, I emerged behind James into a living room only to be met by a mortified man in a grey suit...his wife caught wide eyed with reams of paper in her hands. At Claire's appearance both had turned white as sheets. Dropping her papers, the woman ran and embraced the girl, tears pouring from her eyes. "Oh, my God...Claire, James!" She said. "We thought you were lost!"

"You're him." The man said before holding up his hands. Brown haired and well-dressed, his feet sifting scrolls of paper now rumpled to the floor. "The one they're looking for. Don't hurt us."

I turned my nose up. "What do you mean, _hurt_ you?"

The wife, whose strained visage would have been appealing were not her hair in a severe brown bun, finally let go of Claire and turned to hug Cavanaugh. "He saved us." Claire said quietly, brown eyes looking at me. "At the Raffle, he..."

"We heard." The man said, producing a handbill with my image woodcut upon it. He didn't say anything else...just let me look.

"It's a pretty good likeness." I admitted after some consideration.

"Are you _truly_ the False Shepherd?" The woman asked, about to pee herself.

"Obviously not." Edmonton said as he glanced over my shoulder to the portrait. "His nose is all wrong."

I turned a baleful eye to him and shoved the scrap of paper back at her. "I ain't no 'False Shepherd.' And I ain't here to hurt no one either, but I sure as hell will if I have to." Outside I heard the approach of boots, police pounding upon doors. "Open your house upon orders of the Columbia Police Authority!"

"They're here!" The wife whispered.

"Keep your voice down, Evelyn!" The man hushed. "If they think no one is home, perhaps they'll move on." Worried for our presence, he reconsidered the door. "On second thought, take James and Claire to the basement. They'll be safe there. And take _them_ too."

As a group we followed 'Evelyn' down the stairs, James and Claire nervously looking back, as did I. "Why are you helping us?" I eventually asked as we entered what appeared to be a garage. I didn't mean to seem ungrateful but I didn't know these people and had no assurance we weren't waltzing into a trap

Evelyn looked back to me over her shoulder with worrisome green eyes. "Because some of us still remember the dream for Columbia our parents had, and may yet be."

"Look, I just got here, Lady, so mind ditching the hyperbole and telling me what the hell that means?" Drawing away from the end of the stairs toward a closed wooden door, she gestured with her hand for her charges to follow.

"It means anyone who is an enemy of Comstock and his ilk is an ally of ours. You saved our friends..." She said with a solemn look. Behind her Claire and James gathered together. "This is the least we can do."

#

"Absolutely not." Archibald Montgomery insisted ten minutes later, arms crossed, shaking his head. "I agree with my wife, Mr. DeWitt...we owe you a debt of gratitude for saving our friends, but half of the Constabulary of Columbia is after you. Assisting you would be utter suicide!"

"But Archie..." His wife said. "We just have to help them!"

"And get ourselves _killed_ or worse? And likely James and Claire after that? Out of the question. The risk is simply too great." A vindicated Montgomery had followed us downstairs after the police had moved on, soon finding himself aghast at the plan his wife was concocting. "We were lucky with the Constabulary, but I don't wish to tempt fate a second time. You've heard the wireless, Evelyn...the city is in an uproar! There will be checkpoints at every corner, guards at every major building. They're mobilizing the Columbian Guard after this fellow!"

"Look, you don't owe me shit." I said, not wishing to break up a marriage. "I just want to get across the city."

" _We_ want to get across the city." Edmonton corrected from where he leant his weight to the brickwork wall.

"Well, good luck with that." Montgomery responded with a huff. "I mean, my God, did you really throw a baseball into _Jerimiah Fink's_ face and think you'd get away with it?"

"You, uh, heard about that?"

"I assure you, Mr. DeWitt..." He said. " _Everyone_ in Columbia has heard about that. As well as the _menace_ that you are. It's all over the wireless. You killed four policemen!"

"Who were trying to kill _me_."

"And who would have killed _us_..." Evelyn supplied, approaching her husband's side, talking his forearm into hers. "If they'd found out. There simply has to be _something_ we can do."

Montgomery sighed, put his forehead into his palm. "If...and only _if_ I do this, will you do what you can to help Claire and James get on their feet in America?"

Sensing a deal, I perked up. "Uh, yeah...sure. Assuming I make it that far."

"Very well then, I have a plan."

"A plan?" His wife responded, brow puzzled. In the room she wasn't the only one.

"Evelyn, dear...fetch the hooks and place them in the trunk. We'll have need of them."

"Hooks? Where...where are we going?"

"You three are not going _anywhere_." Montgomery insisted with level eyes. "At least not until I get back. With Comstock's minions otherwise distracted, we might have some us leeway to spirit James and Claire over to Shantytown. Now, if you two gentlemen will please follow me."

"To where?" Edmonton asked.

"Through this door." He said with a step forward, flying a gleeful smirk. "We have an automobile."

#

I was no slouch at driving but Montgomery was a champ. His chariot was a black Parry Pathfinder, four door, six cylinders roaring beneath its cowling with a red streak along its side. Fifty feet beneath Emporia Archie raced at breakneck through a network of tunnels, air fed undoubtedly by the great fans I'd spied upon the buttresses alongside the bedrock. Occasionally a train shot past us on the central track with a great blow, and after a second shuddering passage he explained that the subways were mainly for the trains. Unlike the streets above, the access roads remained empty not only of traffic but police.

Sitting behind me in the seat, Edmonton seemed to approve. "If this works, we'll be able to cut off hours from our journey, and any unfortunate encounters associated with it."

"So the Prophecy is true?" Montgomery said apprehensively, and in his voice I heard both hope and fear.

"Look I'm not the damned antichrist..." I said, realizing what he was getting at. "And I'm not trying to wreck Comstock's little utopia. I just want to get the goddamned girl. Jesus...it's like everybody thinks the sky's gonna fall."

"We don't think that, Mr. DeWitt, but..." Suddenly Montgomery swerved hard, honking his horn as a repair truck flew by in the opposite lane. "But we do wonder. The prophecies of Comstock...have an uncanny way of coming true. Too many times. How they found out about Claire and James...who tried so hard to be discreet. It's like...it's like Comstock can truly _see_."

"Or he has plentiful spies..." Edmonton insinuated from behind.

"Okay, so maybe your good Prophet _can_ see the future, but he can't see intentions. Especially not mine. Who is this woman in the tower, anyway?"

"No one knows for certain." Montgomery answered. Now slowing, he made a wide turn to the left and puttered up a circling ramp. "Other than she is the Miracle Child, Comstock's daughter. The Church says that she was conceived and born within seven days, a miracle of the Angel Columbia that watches over the city of her namesake."

"And what do you think?"

"I think she's the product of the old man's wild oats, as do most of the Founders, from what I hear. Perhaps that's why Lady Comstock disowned her."

" _Disowned_ her?" I asked as an ambulance passed us by, wailing, heading uptown. "I thought you said there wasn't any other traffic down here?"

"I said not _much_. Because I work for the City with James I have access."

"So, what's going to happen to them now that they've been sprung?" I asked, referring to the couple.

"They cannot remain in the Emporia, at least not for long. Shantytown should prove a refuge for the time being...the Constabulary seldom goes there except in force, but it would be best to get them to the Mainland. That is where you come in, should you survive. We have arrangements with some of the workers at the Finkton Docks and should be able to get them aboard a cargo transport. Unfortunately that still requires getting them to Shantytown.

"How?" I asked, remembering Shantytown next to Finkton.

"Either via airship or a circuitous routing of gondolas. You needn't worry, though...this is what we do."

"You help people like them escape?" I asked.

"No, Mr. DeWitt..." Montgomery said as he crested the ramp's rise, joining another disused underground thoroughfare. "Evelyn and I...and people like us...we help people _live_. We're almost there."

#

We slowed into a subterranean car park, coming to a halt at the base of a ramp that opened into sunlight above. Dismounting the idling vehicle, I climbed the ramp to crouch behind a stonework railing. About us lay a park, a grassy table surrounded by trees. Prominently in the center rose a fountain, attended by four policemen.

"Now what?" Edmonton said, consternation in his voice as he came to my side. The park, I could see, had been roped off at the entrance and the gondola service by prominent sign "Discontinued." The four cops were sitting atop the fountain, eating a late lunch. The Monument towered angelic amid the clouds beyond them. "Damnation. The gondola is shuttered."

"Well, I am afraid that this is as far as I can take you. I'd do more but I'm afraid Chitty doesn't fly."

"Chitty?"

"The car. Looks like you're out of luck, unless you want to draw attention to yourself."

Edmonton drew alongside me, huddling together with Montgomery. "Seems like a bad spot we're in despite the keen plan. Any other way out there?"

I pulled my pistol. "Yeah. One way." As I rose Montgomery grasped my elbow.

"Wait, violence can't be the solution."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you really believe that horseshit? It's nearly _always_ the solution."

"Over there." He said, pointing beyond the gondola towards a pair of glinting rail lines running above the cables that led upward toward the Tower. "The skylines. Normally they're used for freight but occasionally mechanics ride the rails using a Skyhook." I looked at the man as though he were insane, because he was suggesting that _I_ ride those rails. I thought about shooting him.

"Well, if we just happened to have a _'Skyhook'_ or whatever the hell you called it lying about we might be in luck, but I don't see..." As I spoke he was into the car's boot, producing one of the nightmarish contraptions I'd nearly been introduced to face first...three rotary hooks, a steel arm and leather waist strap. An arm brace dominated the upper reach of cowhide, complete with all manner of straps.

"Skyhook." Observed Montgomery, burnishing it with his sleeve. At his production I got the feeling he was rather pleased with himself. "Upon occasion Evelyn and I have used them to make our way to clandestine meetings. "But her not so much...it's positively awful on the shoulder and ribs, not to mention the feminine padding.

I glanced to Edmonton, who was intrigued. "Brilliant. How does it work?"

"The skylines are embedded with Lutece Cells at intervals of ten feet. They not only suspend the rails but provide a boost every so often along the direction of your chosen travel. You control your speed by clenching harder upon the grip and frankly the hook does the rest...don't ask me how. Oh, yes, one other thing...its heavily magnetized."

"What's that mean?"

"It means we might not die." Edmonton answered for him. "Come on, DeWitt...we have a girl to find."

#

Edmonton and I emerged from the carpark and headed for the trees, aiming to maintain cover. Once in the brush I looked back to see Montgomery raise his hand, following our progress from his concealment at the car park's stone ramp. Luckily the tree line provided enough shadow to conceal our own passing from the police, apparently more interested in their lunch bags than a tight watch. Approaching a clearing Edmonton noted that the lift lines ran nearest to a gaunt building, whose broad pilasters towered like gravestones above its slate blue outer wall.

"That seems like an able boarding ramp there." Edmonton said with cast towards the high walls surrounding the structure. Hefting harness to the sod, he discarded his jacket before strapping it on. "Think you're up to it, old fellow?" He said as he puzzled at the buckles.

Glancing to mine I followed his lead. "Sure. Just don't look when I close my damned eyes."

"Afraid of heights, are we now? It seems you picked the wrong venue for a job."

"And _you've_ flown around a city by Skyhook before?" Finished with his own bindings, he tended to mine.

"No, but I've done a great deal of mountaineering. The principal is similar, but if you're going to leap I'd recommend not doing so more than a few feet and never letting one bone take the load. The chest harness and armbrace I expect should help somewhat." I spun the three hook at the end and it made a whirring sound. It looked a lot friendlier from this end.

Overall the hook wasn't as cumbersome as one might have suspected, perhaps not made of steel at all but something lighter yet just as strong. With braces in hand we broke for the street, delaying only for an empty trolley's passing before we crossed the road. Wrought iron gates led to a courtyard, within which rose a large and ungainly statue. From the distance it seemed to be Comstock assailed by a coiled serpent. The serpent had three heads, each with a different ethnicity. Below its marble roils a placard read:

 _Comstock Fights the_

 _Serpent of Nations_

Yellow peril stuff. The gates were unlocked, and as I swung them open Edmonton gleaned upward toward the freight line that ran overhead. The fifth story of the place seemed a reasonable jumping off point, but I was already looking back toward the gondola. To my right toward Edmonton and the statue I heard a door open, a motely cast of purple robed figures issuing forth brandishing makeshift clubs. I yanked my British mate back to me only to be caught outside the gate by an approaching truck. Alerted by its blaring horn, one of the men pointed at me. "By the Prophet, that's _him_ , Larry! Get him!"

To my left over a run of shrubbery was yawning infinity, piles of cloud streaming by and around Monument Island perhaps a mile away. As the truck sped off the men charged. The blue building's outer wall seemed to stop just short of the bushes. I made the narrow between them only to realize at the last moment no such ledge existed. Back wheeling from the dizzying plunge to Atlantic, I saw Edmonton's hands rise as five hooded gentlemen surrounded us.

"Edgar..." The one on the far right said. "You sure it's him?" As he spoke I noticed our impending altercation had gained the attention of the four green coats at the fount.

"Who else would be pokin' aroun' _here_?" Came the answer from the middle, a tall man with a Louisville Slugger in hand. "Vern was right to put us out. Only question is, who's the other guy?"

"I've got no quarrel with you men." I said. By their continued approach they obviously had quarrel with me. "Edmonton, are you just going to stand there?!"

"Just waiting for the right moment, DeWitt."

"So you the False Shepherd..." The tall one answered, and through the slits of his purple head cover I could see hate filled hazel eyes. "Can't rightly believe it, but with my own eyes here you is, jus' like Father C. said."

"I ain't no False Shepherd." My words didn't seem to have sufficient impact so I drew the Broadsider. "But I sure as hell will see you to your graves if you come a single step closer." Through the slits in their hoods I could see eyes widen. For a moment my threat worked.

"That's him!" I heard from my right, the coppers rushing across the grass directly toward us. Sensing their advantage, the men in purple keened and charged. At their break I saw Edmonton moving, leaping into one of the purples and deftly taking him to the ground with a lightning swash of leg.

"God Dammit!" I yelled as a bat flew over my head. Two of the bedsheets were on me and by my shoulders took me down backward onto the red brick of the street. As my elbow hit the gun went off, pumping a round into Edgar's chest. His bat struck the ground, eyes glazing over inches above mine before falling into his own pooling blood. Deciding it was a good precedent I rolled him off and put a round into the other as he groped for the bat in the dirt. By now Edmonton had made short service of his first assailant and had produced his own firearm, that brown pommeled, black barreled Steyr M1912. His two remaining attackers cowered backward, pushing into the shrubbery surrounding the compound's wall.

Plaster and stonework exploded about us.

" _Jesus!_ " I bellowed, diving headlong through the open black gates and onto the grass beyond. With the many-headed statue behind me I swung my weapon up and unloaded. As I fired a cop's automatic hammered rounds into the cobblestone at my feet, but my shots were better aimed and he fell. In unison his three partners opened fire with pistols, driving Edmonton hastily through the gate alongside me. Now behind cover, he swung about and joined my fusillade, pelting the trees and bushes the police had sheltered behind. I heard a scream and one of the cops went down, even as another leapt the bush and dashed across the road for the dead gunner's heavy weapon. Two more shots, this time from the Steyr, and the fool crumpled to the stonework feet shy of his goal.

"Come out with your hands up..." A quaking voice managed from behind the tree. "If you want to live."

"Why do I get the idea you'd kill me even if I did?" I shouted through the wrought iron gate, careful not to expose myself. As I yelled, I could see Edmonton dealing with a reddening leg, making a makeshift bandage to bind a concealed wound.

"You'll never get away with it! You won't take our Lamb!"

Having staunched his calf with a wrap of his suspender Edmonton motioned me to keep talking and made for our far left and the crook of the wall. "Who the hell is the ' _Lamb_ '?" I shouted back, drawing confused silence. Somewhere out in the street a man moaned, and though they'd been there since the fight had begun I suddenly registered all of the bodies strewn across its breadth. I single shot rang out. Behind the tree I heard a groan...saw a figure slump into the bushes.

"That should be it then, DeWitt. Let us be on our way." I heard Edmonton say from my left as he descended from the wall. Still wary for the near dozen who'd assaulted us, I held my position, surveying with pistol in hand the carnage. Somewhere in the distance but getting louder I heard sirens. Sirens. Always the sirens. "Come on." Edmonton said with outstretched hand. "They're dead. We need to make the rooftop before their reinforcements arrive." Regarding his appendage, I eventually accepted and he drew me upward. "They left us with no choice, you know."

"Yeah..." I said. "And I don't think they'll be the last of it."

Edmonton looked out to the carnage, ears tuning to the approaching vehicles. "Mmmmm...perhaps, but we'll handle it in due course. First things first...we're here for a girl?"

"Yeah..." I said, head still ringing, heart only grudgingly beginning to slow. "How'd they know to come?" I asked, eyes toward the sirens. Together we began to trot toward the building's open doors, and with the increasing wail, run.

"I told you, DeWitt...the man's a prophet." He said with cocked eyebrow. "He _always_ knows."

#

Above the portico an all-seeing eye loomed, cast of bronze and pierced by five upthrust swords. Half the size of the blue building's frontage or more, above it in winding faux scrolls were engraved the words _"Audemus Patria Nostra Defendere."_ Hearing approaching vehicles, I didn't hesitate, just long enough for Edmonton to take notice.

"Any idea what it means?" I asked, looking again back over my shoulder.

Edmonton continued up the stoop and flung wide the twin oak doors. "We dare defend our homeland." He muttered. "Or at least I think that's what they're trying to say.

"Why trying?" Turning about, I threw the lock on the doors and forced a nearby table before them.

Gun at his side, Edmonton seemed amused. "You really think _that_ will hold them off?"

I grabbed my Broadsider and began to move. "Maybe for a few seconds. Why trying?"

"Because they don't know their Latin."

Inside the passage was ill-lit and gloomy, leading to a round foyer. At the chamber's center was set a sconce filled with water, a statue of a raven standing guard over the black and white zig zag tile. Uncannily its eyes seemed to follow our passage. As Edmonton went on to lecture me about the proper conjugation of a dead language we passed paintings of several luminaries. Dim lights illuminated our progress, and following the passageway further we came up empty in our search for stairs. Presently we emerged into an even larger chamber about which several rooms were arrayed.

Dominating this rotunda was a thirty foot statue of John Wilkes Booth...not that I'd have known the man's impression, but a placard placed at his boots prominently announced his identity. Rounds of stairs spiraled upward to both his left and right. To both left and right the antechambers bore tapestries, hung with the words, _"Sic Semper Tyrannis_."

"They got that one right, didn't they?" I asked.

Edmonton nodded. "I believe so."

Within one of the side chambers lay a long dining hall, its floor tile like the foyer but centered by a table and two sets of chairs. Upon the tabletop were set six candleholders, each of four candles with a higher central wick. Beneath them lay a sumptuous banquet, set for many more than six men. Having apparently caught the men in their feast, I helped myself to a swig of whiskey from a tabletop decanter...followed it with a wing of chicken. Looking at an expansive painting above the fireplace mantle, I offered the bottle to Edmonton. He poured it upon his wound. "What do you make of this?" I said, gazing at the oil of Ford's Theater. In it Booth had entered from behind, pistol in hand, blasting a devil horned, red eyed Lincoln from behind.

"They certainly have their peculiarities, don't they?" He said, wincing at the burn. "I do believe they are no friends of the African race...nor perhaps any other race."

Reaching to the table with my free hand, I perused a printed menu. "Fraternal Order of the Raven. Ever heard of it?"

"No." He said. "Would you mind?"

Realizing he was still bleeding, I let the chicken and menu fall to the black and white checkerboard tile. Appropriating an unused napkin, I redid his bandage and tightened it. "That should do it for now."

With his weight he tested it. "It will have to." Hearing sirens arriving outside, he glanced upward. "I believe we should go."

Into the foyer we went, rounding the stairs to emerge upon a second floor, a floor that overlooked the statue. There I was pleasantly surprised to discover an elevator. "Here's our ticket." I said to Edmonton's relief. The sirens had stopped now, and I could hear a great commotion in the courtyard and a frenetic exchange of words. Edmonton heard it too. "Come on...let's go."

The lift doors opened promptly when I slammed the button, and once inside I commanded it upward to the fifth floor with an equally vigorous smash of clenched fist. The doors closed and upward we went. Negotiating that upper floor we discovered within a few anxious minutes a windowed chamber and broad balcony on the Order's backside. From the park we'd seen the skylines and cabled stanchions running behind the building, but distance had skewed my perspective. Above a cluster of heavier cables the cargo lines swung minutely in the wind at least twenty feet away. Seventy feet below, the ground was solid and waiting...to our left the ocean was worse. "Now what do we do?" I asked, seeing no way to bridge the gap.

"Rope." Edmonton said. "We'll need rope and go hand over hand to the cables. Somewhere below I heard bashing and the faint shouts of policemen.

Rushing from the room and back to the lift, I opened the door...shot out its control panel with a bullet. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my second and last magazine to reload. "All right...let's find us some rope."

Hastily we searched the fifth floor without luck, listening to the thumping and anxious cries below. Knowing I was racing against time, I sighed and headed down a flight of stairs. A long passage lay before me. Off in a side chamber that appeared to be a smoking room, I heard a radio playing…

" _Scoundrels, believed by many to be Vox Polpuli, began their terrible rampage but hours ago at the Fairgrounds Raffle. Brimming with danger and evil intent, we implore you not to tempt ruination by confronting them without the protection of Columbia's finest."_

'Columbia's finest.' As I stood there looking, the announcer began enumerating street closures and where citizens should expect roadblocks. Edmonton shouted from down the passage.

Down the hallway he came hobbling, a coil of rope about his neck and shoulders. "Where'd you find that?" I asked, noting that there was a fair amount of dried blood upon its length.

"Would you stop asking if I told you that you didn't want to know?"

"No." Together we hastened up the steps. Crashing into the penthouse, I spun and shuttered the twin doors. Seeing as there was no other entrance, I began piling sofas up against it. 'They'll be here soon."

"I know." Edmonton said from behind me, tying a poker he'd found next to the fireplace at its end.

"You can throw that far enough?"

"I can try. Some assistance of yours might be useful." Racing toward the balcony's stone railing, he hurtled the improvised grapple high and outward. The rope sailed over the lines before the poker dropped. Caught in the gust near Emporia's balustraded rim, it came down and back at us with a vengeance.

"Son of a Bitch!" I cried, throwing myself to the carpet atop the wood plank floor with a muffled thud. Edmonton landed beside me as the poker came crashing into the French doors. Leaping upward amid falling glass, he caught the shaft with his hands. Anchoring it to a floor fixed brass lamp work inside along with the other end, he pulled the line taught.

"Upstairs!" I heard from somewhere outside.

"That worked rather more smartly than I'd expected."

"You still didn't answer me where you found it."

Testing the rope's carrying strength, Edmonton mounted the makeshift bridge and cocked his head toward mine. "Attached to a dead body. Come on. It's time to go."

As I looked outward the heights were immobilizing, but from behind came a crash and the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the doors. "In there!" I heard a man shout followed by the turning of door knobs.

"It's locked." Came another voice, followed by, " _Bash it in!_ "

A mighty blow struck the doors which bowed inward under some man's thrown weight. Molding flew across the floors, spattering the fireplace and carpet. I gripped onto the rope and swallowed...felt it strain against the brass wall mounting holding it taught. Hand over hand I followed Edmonton outward and tried not to look down.

Stray bullets stung the air beside me, and with renewed vigor I increased my pace toward the skyline. Edmonton was reaching outward from the rope with his steely contraption, trying to hook on. Below me seventy feet of void loomed. I heard him curse, saw him slam his hook onto the cable again he was off.

"There he is!" I heard from behind. "Get him!"

I flung my contraption-rigged appendage outward. Unlike Edmonton's mine latched in effortlessly as it made contact. Acceleration nearly wrenched my shoulder out of socket, increasing with each passing second. A growing wind began to press my face, and below I knew it I was out over open ocean. I hated heights, but I hated _deadly_ heights into shark infested iceberg waters even more. Nearby the air sang and I cranked my head back to spy a uniformed sharpshooter taking aim with a repeating rifle amid a handful of others. They were all still too close. Whipping my weapon out against the growing blast, I twisted backwards and discharged half my magazine in rapid succession. Amid snapping stone and plaster, the cops fell back through the window.

Behind me Emporia was falling away, though again I had the sinking suspicion I'd not seen the last of it. Somewhere above I heard a droning, squinted upward to spy a zeppelin breaking the cottony vapor above, its silver limb catching the glint of the afternoon sun, guns and soldiers darkly spoiling its sleek flanks. Edmonton, who was perhaps a hundred feet ahead of me, careened now upward along the lines, seemingly defying gravity. A pair of impossible floating green pylons passed us in quick succession by to either side, lights flashing, impelled to altitude by fast spinning fans at their bases. Ahead the statue of Columbia loomed, seeming larger the nearer we came.

Despite their gift I was cursing the Montgomerys now, for my arm felt as though it was about to pull from my socket. Off to our left a frontage approached, backdropped by the more distant tower. Two landings dominated its frontage, above each rising a rectangular tower. Built in the same ritzy fashion as so many of the buildings I'd seen, its blue slate rooftops were surmounted by red and white striped pennants and an arced glowing sign calling out, " _Monument Island_."

Flying over its outer wall at speed, we came ten feet above a grassy lawn. In passing I couldn't help but notice the signs calling the place out as " _Closed Until Further Notice_." Glancing ahead I saw Edmonton cut clear and fall into the grass, seeing the rails approaching a disused cargo landing. Registering the freight bins at rest ahead, I jerked at the hook to no avail. I heard him shout something just before I smashed into a box car.

#

As I lay in the dirt the freight bins rocked overhead, detritus from the overhanging trees falling from their sides to the ground about me. "You all right old chap?!" Edmonton shouted, hobbling to my side. He offered an outstretched arm. Head still ringing, I accepted. "You're lucky this is the end of the line." He said as he pulled me to my feet. "It seems whatever locomotion these lines incorporate is set to slow for this last several hundred feet." He looked at the rocking crates. "You don't look so good."

"I don't feel so good." I bent over, hands upon knees as I tried to regain my breath. "What...what the hell were you trying to tell me?" Blood oozed from my nose.

Edmonton smirked, pointing toward a latch on my mechanism. "I was trying to tell you to use your release."

"Oh." Taking handkerchief in hand I spit upon it and wiped the mess away. "You might want to point that out beforehand next time."

The cargo boxes were still swaying as we descended the grass to the pathway below. About us trees rose from mossy slopes, an untended garden shrouded in a deep forest of silence. As we alighted on the building's brick approach birdsong resumed. The place even smelled abandoned. Ahead the path was blocked by a wall and three gates, a trio of red lights glowing atop them in sun split shadow. Below an abandoned guard tower a sign warned:

 _CAUTION! CLOSED!_

 _OFF LIMITS!_

I glanced about, expecting police to arrive at any moment. In my weapon I wished I had something more potent than my seven remaining rounds. Approaching the barrier, we found the gates heavily chained. Another sign advertised, _"Danger! Risk of Death!"_

I looked up. I couldn't see the zepp through the canopy, but I could hear it now...the droning of motors against the tittering birds. "We have to get moving. They have to know where we've gotten too...they'll be coming soon."

Motes of dust hung in the sun beams missed by the trees, and through their leafy partings the Angel Columbia gleamed in golden light above. "Agreed. Whoever closed this place certainly wished people to know there was a danger. Did your patrons mention this?"

"This?" I said, looking about at the decaying grounds. Leaf litter lay like a carpet over the footpath, while here and there a railing hung broken and rusting. "No. Nothing about this. Any ideas?"

"The closure appears deliberate, and from the overgrown condition of the wall and lawn not a recent event." Studying the twenty foot barrier before us, he spoke to me without looking. "Perhaps we'll find our answer inside."

I drew on the chains but found them strong, the rust having not had enough years to work its magic. Looking for some other way into the sanctum I discovered only frustration. "How's the leg?"

"I've had worse." Edmonton answered. Perspiration trailed down his temple and brow as he assaulted the chains.

"Sealed tight." Undaunted, I placed my foot on the rightmost embankment, found a toe hold in the truss work of the gate's flank and began to climb. The skyhook was a bulky burden. I kept slinging it over my back but it would just flop out to the side, the gyration threatening to break my arm. I unstrapped the contraption and flung it over, scampering up the wall after it. Shortly afterward Edmonton followed, cringing as he alighted.

I looked at his leg with a grimace. "Maybe there's an infirmary inside. This place certainly has the air of a sanitarium."

"And what do you intend to do, DeWitt? Sew it up? I don't believe I heard you qualifying yourself as a physician." Though it had finally stopped oozing his wound could be easily seen through the man's soiled white pant. It had to hurt like hell.

"No, but I've been in a few scrapes and more than my fair share of battles. I know how to wash a wound out and bind a bullet hole. I've had enough of them."


	7. Chapter 7 The Bird

**7\. The Bird**

Beyond the gates lay a courtyard, a circular expanse of brick surrounded by a garden of untended shrubbery. Beyond its littered expanse a building loomed, pairs of windows bracketing a portico three stories high. Amidst the portico's four pillars stood a weathered statue of Columbia. As I helped Edmonton down from the wall I considered the bulk of the skyhook in the tall grass. It remained where it had fallen.

"You okay?"

"For the moment." Edmonton answered, looking upward toward the statue. He removed his own arm gear. To her sides stairs of marble wound, the lady's once lovely form dingy in half kneel. Holding an engraved stone scroll at the base of the steps, the spirit looked away toward the sea. Together we approached.

" _And the seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne,_

 _and drown in flame the mountains of man."_

I read, puzzling over the dirt encrusted words. "What do you think it means?"

Edmonton shrugged, blond mop all askew as he nursed the leg. "Who knows? Another spot of mystical humbug." At the landing above blue doors met us, trimmed in peeling gold leaf. Testing them with the barrel of my Broadsider, I found them unlocked.

"Why do I think this isn't a good sign?

"Because you're observant. Curiouser and curiouser this 'Lamb' of Comstock's grows."

The doors parted to a round atrium, at whose tiled center stood a much smaller marble of the Tower. Behind it a single dim bulb glowed, while off to the sides of a new set of double doors statues of Washington and Franklin kept watch. Sword and key hung in hand. War and Science, I thought.

" _Danger! Do not approach the Specimen_ ," a sign warned. Another added: _"Past this point 12 hour Quarantine! Approval Chief Scientist Lutece."_ Posted in even greater prominence above the next doorway... _Specimen is Dangerous!"_

The broken chairs and tables that lay strewn about the chamber's circumference attested to this fact. Fabric and splinters dotted the floor. Investigating downed partitions, shattered lamps and marred walls, I came upon a rack of white coats off to the side. The kind scientists like to wear to look smart. Coming alongside me, Edmonton stooped to retrieve a sheaf of half burnt notes, strewn from a notebook across the tile. Beneath Saint Washington's gaze he brought them into his sight and read.

" _I guess even in a restricted area these crackers need someone to clean floors. Those politicians and scientists don't bother what they say around me because they think I'm some half-lettered colored boy. But I can tell they scared outta their wits by that thing they got locked upstairs, yes, Sir. They got a tiger by the tail, and they don't know whether to hang on...or run."_ He paged forward to inside the cover. _"Ty Bradley."_

Fingering the moth eaten lab coats, I looked to him. "Tiger by the tail?"

Edmonton looked upward to the door, then over Columbia's head to the heights above. "It seems their Lamb is not as pacific as perhaps her moniker might convey." Upon the tile I saw what could only be bloodstain.

Abandoned by the years these doors creaked, moving slowly under our force as we passed through. In the gloom beyond we found ourselves side by side upon the burnt indigo of a carpet. Sparks flew from broken electrical cables to our right, while a caustic tang hung in the air. The corridor, arched, receded some fifty feet, its sides supported every ten by conforming buttresses. Along its length smoke billowed from obtuse machinery. Broken desks adorned the walls. At the end, beneath a singular yellow light fixture hung a chalkboard with four figures sketched in white silhouette. About us I could hear strange groans and creaking, such as the whole chamber might collapse at any moment. Everywhere there were fallen electrical lines.

As we approached the chalkboard Edmonton began kicking office doors open, finding their desks ruined and contents similarly deserted. At the blackboard the corridor split left and right. The chalk figures increased in size from left to right, alongside them an x-ray of two hands. One by one they depicted a 'morphology' of a female 'entity' in her growth, ages 1, 5, 11 and 17. Illegible chalk in a woman's longhand adorned the left side of the board.

"It looks like a Goddamned tornado hit this place." I whispered. Warily Edmonton looked about, then back at the chalkboard. To the right we advanced, weapons drawn.

The blackboard hung upon a partition, about which we pressed to find another sign: _"Past this point 72 hour Quarantine!_ _Approval Chief Scientist Lutece._ " To its right lay a generator control panel. Down the passage to its left light was flashing and the smell of burnt air pungent. What we found was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

Before us rose a low circular platform of three thin steps, atop which was a rounded rectangular cage. Within were three red and gold desks, labeled left to right, "Transpose 1, Transpose 2 and Transpose 3." Upon a sign above the cage's entrance the entrance a red sign illuminated the white letters, _"SIPHON PASSIVE."_ To either side machinery which I could only describe as lightning generators threw bolts of crackling current from their spherical crowns onto similar contacts upon the cage top, cracking like whips and illuminating the chamber in unearthly light. Cables hung everywhere. In three ampules atop the cage I discerned a luminescent, violet fluid, churning and somehow connected to the flows of current. In the dim light beyond the desks I now saw three more glass tubes, each with an artifact within. _'Age 4 Companion,'_ the label read, the curiosity being a Teddy Bear with an eye out. _'Age 11,'_ said the second, the token being a poetry book. Finally, _'Age 13,'_ read the third, along with the title _'Menarche.'_ A rag hung in state, stained pink.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Edmonton said as I reached for a handle, eyes admonishing. I pulled it anyway. Lightning leapt downward into the so called poetry book, frying it. Edmonton sighed, hand on chin. Encouraged, I pulled the next, watching as the lighting struck into the stained cloth, coursing for several seconds while the stain disappeared. Each time I did so, I noted the sign above went out and the one below illuminated.

 _SIPHON ACTIVE_.

"DeWitt..." Edmonton said as he examined the generator panels, casting a cautious eye toward the crackling current which illuminated the chamber like a massive stroboscope. "Please stop." He looked about. "If I'm not mistaken..." He said, gaze turning to the panel. "The current is flowing from here _outward_. I think we've found the power plant."

" _Power plant?_ " I said aloud.

"Yes. I'm skilled in matters electrical you see, and I've...I've never seen anything of this magnitude. Like a thunderstorm of the greatest potency casting nonstop bolts down to a waiting antenna. Those cables we saw beneath us upon the Skyrail poles...remember what I'd said earlier about Finkton? I need to look at this for a moment as well as rest my leg." He was mesmerized, and he had a right to be. The laboratory was terrifying in its power.

"Come on." I said, but he'd slipped into an office at the side and was perusing a notebook. "DeWitt, these notes...the control panels. This is _it_. This can only be _the_ power source of Columbia!" Withdrawing a black box from his pocket, eye to peephole he hovered it over the texts, making with clicks of his forefinger brilliant flashes. Faintly I heard a woman singing. As Edmonton poured over wiring diagrams, I found myself drawn outward.

#

To my right lay a chamber dimly lit. Following the girl's humming I left Edmonton behind, stumbled down a corridor into an unexpectedly dark room. Hung upon lines were pictures of a pretty brunette...pictures I recognized. A subsequent chamber held a projector with film wound on its reels. I approached...flipped the machine on to moving pictures of a little girl attempting to pick a locked safe door, then that same girl later in life. By the date but a year before. Adorned in a white dress, she was laboring before a chalkboard, rows and columns of letters yielding to her manipulation. Strangely the movies were all taken from behind. The last picture, again from behind, was of her painting the Eiffel Tower.

They'd been watching her...probably her whole life.

With the day expiring and Edmonton distracted I took a lift up, knowing that the time for gathering information was over and action at hand. The lift deposited me at its uppermost station, and as its doors opened I found myself in a long corridor. Double doors lay midway down and to the right. At this level I could hear music playing, a girl singing along to it. Passing through a red curtained chamber, I spied yet another sign upon the stone wall: _WARNING: DO NOT APPROACH SIPHON WHILE SPECIMEN IS AWAKE!_

Beyond it three ball-capped lighting antennas rippled with electricity, current flowing from somewhere deep in the guts of the place. Amidst them was set a fluid receptacle like the ones below, possibly of glass or crystal. Inside its volume that same luminous fluid churned. Gazing at its roiling mass I felt forbidding power. As below cables were strung everywhere. Amid wooden speakers diaphragms reverberated with the singing I was hearing. Beside one of them a doorway led onward, a gold trimmed curtain of blue hanging ahead. A sign warned that:

" _The siphon is dangerous while leeching the specimen_."

 _Leeching?_

Around another partition I came to new chalkboard, green instead of black, scrawled upon its smooth surface an ascending white line. Upward over the years of a childhood it ran until a sudden lurch upward at 13 years... " _Menarche."_ Afterward the line labeled _"Power Readings"_ fell...but picked up again vigorously after a year. A label below noted _"Siphon Installed."_ Scratched in yellow capitals to its right, underlined three times, were the words " _FACILITY UNSAFE_."

The singing faltered.

This girl was no girl at all. As Bradley had said, the scientists knew it. Comstock knew it. _Laslowe_ knew it. Did _Edmonton_ know it? Another sign froze me in my tracks.

" _WARNING: DO NOT TOUCH THE SPECIMEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE"_

followed by:

 _"PAST THIS POINT, 168 HOUR QUARANTINE Approval, the Prophet."_

I pressed onward.

The funny thing about being dead is that it's the same no matter how it happens...lights out. End of line. Faced with treating with a demon or eating a Morello bullet, I chose the latter. Beyond a utility room I found another lift, unexpectedly functional. It carried me upward.

The lower floors had been stonework, decorated with burnt tapestries, carpet and wooden furniture. Here there was nothing but tiled wall and the groan of Columbia's steel structure. It felt as though I were in the bowels of a ship. For a few moments I was lost, until I found a sign with six rooms annotated upon it below a single glowing light.

" _Dressing Room_."

I exited the central structure to a wooden catwalk.

Walking the floorboards about the statue's internal structure, I found an antechamber with a camera pointed at a shielded window. Beside it protruded a lever. With a pull the panel lowered to reveal a room adorned by green wall paper, golden flourishes and a white chalk matrix upon a black chalk board. I'd seen it in the films. I took a moment to ponder her work, looking at intricacies of numbers arrayed against letters. At the same time I heard a noise outside and froze, realizing after a moment it was only Columbia's ceaseless wind. The silence caused me to wonder why the Columbians weren't storming the tower. How could they have not seen where we were going? Edmonton had intonated that this place was important to Columbia, perhaps the utmost. Were they _that_ afraid?

I climbed the catwalk's slope upward until eventually I found the placard " _Dressing Chamber._ " Opening the hatch with a spin of wheel I found another camera focused upon _another_ iron plate. A single lever protruded before it. A sign upon the wall warned "' _QUIET! WHILE SPECIMEN IS PRESENT' by Order of the Columbia Science Authority."_

I pulled it and the window lowered to reveal a red paneled room...and a humming girl. Behind her upon the wall hung an exquisite painting of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, while in her hands she held a postcard of the same. Dressed in a white blouse, blue skirt and matching scarf, she was the very likeness from Laslowe's card. This was no demon...she was an _angel_. She turned toward me and with her right hand brushed her hair, blue eyes looking directly into mine. My heart stopped but she seemed blissfully ignorant of my presence. Upon the chamber's walnut panels charcoals of a strange, birdlike creature were pinned, while books sat piled four high upon her lacquered desk. She'd been smiling at the postcard but suddenly jolted and looked at her right hand. Holding it aloft, I could see a silver thimble upon not her pinkie but a stub. With a flex of her knees she grimaced...shook the pain away.

Leaving the card behind upon the desk she stepped out, and best I could I gave chase, ascending the outer catwalk, finding after a relieved moment a stairway that brought me to a new vantage point. This panel opened to a view of her library.

As the window opened she stood across the chamber looking away from me, daydreaming beneath a blue-curtained panoramic window that overlooked the vastness of clouds outside. She'd started humming again, the same hymn I'd heard before. To her sides wooden stairs descended, while beneath her and all about the long chamber shelves of books ran in neat cases, each stack adorned in gold leaf and floral filigree. As I watched my hand fell upon a notebook. Absently I opened it, finding it to be the study of a scientist named Rosalind Lutece. Lutece, I thought...the scientist. And a woman.

Following her script with my fingertip, she seemed to speculate: _'What makes the girl different?'_ Her words asked. _'I suspect it has less to do with what she is and rather more with what she is not. A small part of her remains from where she came. It would seem the universe does not like its peas mixed with its porridge.'_

Somewhere outside I heard a thump...perhaps a creaking. I tried to tell myself it was the wind and not a hatch being opened...anything to dissuade me of the idea that Columbia had found us. Nearly a dozen men were dead by my hand already, and how many by Edmonton's? There would be no talking my way out of this sin...its wages was death.

Again I took to the catwalk but despite my searching I could find no way in. At the top of the accessway, however, I did find an unlocked hatch. Forcing its corroded hinges open with effort I emerged upon the heights outside of the monument. The wind was howling at near gale force, while around me the city heights were visible through the cloud tops. Below but far too close a heavy Columbian gunship was holding station.

"Holy shit..." I heard myself cry as the wind stung my face, unbalanced by the frigid heights. I had to be close, I thought, closing my eyes...knowing that if I could chance the damned Skyhook I could climb a ramp and some stairs. Keeping my back to the statue's metallic skin I inched up the ramp that followed Columbia's left shoulder, forcing myself against the wind step by step. Near the top a flight of pierced metal stairs led upward to a hatch, one ajar in the statue's head. With my back away from the chain link 'railing' that was at most decorative, I made my way up to the entrance and pulled myself inside.

I took a moment to catch my breath. Inside the utilitarian steel of the statue's upper corridors I discovered more hatches, one stenciled with the phase _'Door must remain closed at all times.'_ With hands nearly frozen I spun it open. Within it I found a translucent emerald curtain. Circumnavigating its diameter I discovered an opening, inside which I noted a brass plate twenty feet in diameter. Across it loomed another opening. As I stepped onto the pan I heard a snap of metal...saw one of the four chains that suspended it come free in slow motion. I was falling.

I bellowed, only to slam onto something hard and sturdy. Struggling for a better grasp, I clambered onto what I soon realized to be a varnished railing. Looking upward I found a brunette, her blue eyes returning my gaze. At her bosom like a security blanket was clutched an overly large tome of Homer's Odyssey.

All I could think to say was, "Hello."

I'm not certain what I _could_ have said that _might_ have diffused that moment, but 'hello' wasn't it. She shrieked, pedaling backwards toward the window, book flying into the air. Her fright startled me and with a howl I lost my grip, falling a good ten feet to a thud upon my back.

Something broke my fall, a table or couch or my head I suppose. Terrified, the girl came to the railing and hurled Homer at me. Dashing down the railed stairs, she stopped and hefted another grimoire, her aim entirely too accurate. "Hey, knock it off! Knock it off! Will you stop it?" I cried as books pelted me. " _Will you stop it!_ I'm _not_ here to hurt you!"

Brandishing above her frail shoulders an improbably massive text concerning the ' _Principles of Quantum Mechanics,_ ' she came at me full bore, rearing back at the last moment to strike. For some reason she stayed her blow. " _Who are you?!_ "

I groaned and rose from the red carpet. "My name is DeWitt. I'm a friend. I've come to get you out of here." I reached out to touch her shoulder but she shirked.

"Get away!" She cried, bringing the book down upon me full force. Despite her determination I'd gotten upright and she had the strength of a gnat. I caught her hand, noticing again the thimble silver upon her shortened finger. She struggled, but my grasp of her wrist dissuaded any renewed attempt to introduce me to modern literature. The fear lessened upon her face, then seemed to melt away. "Are you real?" She whispered, eyes unexpectedly full of hope Outward she reached to touch my face.

"Real enough." I said.


	8. Chapter 8 The Cage

**8\. The Cage**

I don't know how long we stood beneath the bookcase. It couldn't have been but more than a minute but it was long enough to register her tears, to feel fingertips trembling upon my cheek. The chamber was silent, silence through which I could again hear the groaning of the wind upon the tower's heights. Beyond the metal shell I could hear something else...droning. "Look, Elizabeth, we have to go." I said with a glance over her shoulder.

Eyes refocused upon mine, her hand fell away from my face. "How...how do you know my name?

I tried to localize the sound. "Not now. Where's the door?"

"There's no way out." She moaned, looking toward a daunting bank vault door. "Trust me, I've looked." A keyhole adorned its right side and suddenly I wondered.

Sifting through my pocket, I produced the token Laslowe had given me. "What about this?" I asked, holding it before her between my thumb and two forefingers.

"What about it?"

"This is the way out, isn't it?"

Realizing what was in my hand, her eyes widened. "Where did you get tha...give it to me!" She snatched it from my grasp and looked upon it in disbelief, spun it between the Bird on one side and the Cage on the other. Dashing for the door, she hesitated before inserting it into the socket. Inside I heard the movement of tumblers and the door sprung open. She stood there, hands upon her chest before looking back to me. Upon her face I saw amazement...and fear.

"I told you, it's a way out." I came alongside her, still feeling bruises I'd nurse for days. They wouldn't be the last. "How long have you...been locked inside here?"

She continued looking at the door, lower lip a tremble. "All of my life." She whispered. "I've...never been...out."

I swung the bulkhead open further and offered my hand. "Are you serious?" She looked at the door but said nothing. I nodded down the passage. "Well, out is _this_ way."

From the apprehension in her exit I knew for a fact she wasn't lying. Outside I stumbled to a halt. A sign called out: _"CAUTION: PROCEED ONLY IF SPECIMEN IS PROPERLY SEDATED!"_ She stood looking at it, eyes turning back to mine. "Specimen? What _specimen_? And what is 'sedated'?"

"Come on." I answered, drawing my weapon as I led her down a flight of stairs to the right. "Look, there's a lot I have to tell you but for now we need to move."

The stairs led to another flight that caddy cornered left, winding its way around her quarters. Tile adorned the wall, black with white stripe amid antiseptic air. Now outside her apartments, we could hear the wind whipping even more strongly. For the moment the droning I'd fretted over had receded.

"Who are you?" She asked. In my fear for Columbia's finest popping up behind every corner I was moving cautiously. It gave her opportunity to get in my face. "Why did you come here?"

"I came here to get you out. That's all you need to know." I said, holding forefinger to my lips. Presently we emerged onto the wooden catwalk and again I knew my way. Tracing my path backward we arrived at the elevator lobby, two of its three walls windows to her chambers. At first she seemed not to understand what she was seeing, before the realization hit her that she was looking from the backside through one way mirrors. As I walked to the lift and pressed the button on its left, I could see her unravel.

"What is all this?" She said, palm upon chest. "They were...watching me? _All_ this time? Why? _Why did they put me in here_?" She turned to me and I could see her eyes hysteria. "What am I? _WHAT AM I_?!"

"You're the girl who's getting out of this tower." I said, attempting to calm her nerves with steady eyes. The lift chimed and its doors slid open. She jumped behind me. Realizing she'd never seen an elevator before, at least not while awake, I stepped inside, unable to help but grin. "It's an elevator. It won't bite."

"An elevator?" She asked, trepidation upon her brow as she analyzed its dimensions.

"Yeah...it takes you up and down. And we're going _down_." I offered my hand. After a moment of indecision she took it. Standing next to me, she jumped again as the doors closed.

As girls went Elizabeth was of average height, perhaps 5'5" but slim. Me being an inch or two over six feet put distance between our eyes, forcing her to look up at me. As the lift descended I could see her fret, arms about herself, unable to know whether she could trust this stranger. As unnerved as she'd been when she realized she was being watched, the research rooms we found at the lift door's opening left her positively unhinged. Backtracking my path, I'd known they were coming and tried to prevent her from seeing them...to no avail. As she looked at the hanging photos and reels of film sitting on racks, she began to understand. Passing a laboratory room with gurney and surgical instruments, she turned to me. "What am I?" She whispered again, touching with her fingertips another sign warning about the ' _Specimen_.' "Am I..."

"Not anymore." I holstered my pistol in an effort to calm her. "When is the last time you saw a human being?"

"Four years ago, I think. Maybe five." Her eyes were distant now. "When I was younger people used to visit me all of the time, for elocution and math and finishing lessons. I had very demanding teachers."

"But that stopped?" I asked as we left the chambers behind. By her demeanor I could tell I'd for the moment gotten her mind off the laboratories.

"I don't know why, but I went through a...a bad time and suddenly they didn't come anymore."

Edmonton was nowhere to be found as we emerged from the passage beside the Siphon. For a moment I thought he might be too much for the girl, deprived for years of any human companionship then suddenly forced to deal with two strange men. As we stepped into the chamber she swooned. With a deft twist I caught the girl in my arms. The illumination of the chamber seemed to grow brighter. She opened her eyes.

"You okay?"

Elizabeth looked about in bleary disbelief at the arcing equipment about us. "What is this place?" She said, curling her nose at the bite in the atmosphere. "It hurts."

"Good question." I answered as I released her, gandering about at the garish layout. Edmonton emerged from the office ahead. Seeing me with the girl he smiled, leg sans blood and clearly rebandaged.

"Oh, jolly good, you've found her. I'd wondered where you'd gotten off to the last hour or so. It seems I've been mistaken, DeWitt. I'd thought this assemblage here the power source for all of Columbia. Imagine how deflated I was when I found I was wrong."

"Wrong?"

Edmonton pointed his Steyr at me. "Good day, Miss. I believe I'll be requiring your company."

I placed myself between her and him. "What the hell, Edmonton?"

"Mr. DeWitt..." She said. "Who...who is he? Why is he pointing a gun at us?"

"Because, my dear, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me. There are several men who would like to have a frank discussion with you."

"Fat chance." I replied with steely eyes, wondering how I could have been such an idiot for letting him insinuate himself to my cause. Though his lips continued moving I knew how this game ended... _I_ didn't leave this place alive. Slamming Elizabeth to the ground, I whipped my Broadsider out and opened fire. With bullets sparking the metal about him the Brit fell over backward, head over heels over a wrecked desk and onto the tile. I yanked Elizabeth upright by the arm. "Come on!"

As I we rounded the "Siphon" Edmonton began shooting. For a master of electricity or whatever he'd claimed to be, he was a fool. A stray shot shattered what must have been a capacitor bank. Electricity began arcing everywhere, lighting the curtains and carpet aflame, the lot of which erupted like a dry and underbrush clogged forest into a booming conflagration. Behind us the Siphon room exploded. Elizabeth screamed. Dragging her along I could see the flame spreading along the decorations and wooden paneling of the rooms. We stumbled to a stairwell, Elizabeth screaming, "Which way!?"

Still searching the smoke behind us with the sights of my gun, I backed into her and looked down. Below fire spewed from doorway, belching like a furnace into what would have been our escape. Shying away from the sudden burst of heat, I noticed upon the wall a hatchway. Pocketing my pistol, I spun it open to blinding light. A sudden gale cut into the stairwell. Below I heard a drone and saw the gunship coming alongside the monument's gardens. Smoke was now spilling from the tower's base and everywhere below our level. Upon the decks of the approaching zepp troopers were preparing to dismount. I knew there could only be one answer for this situation...live a few more minutes and hope against hope that something crazy happened. "Up!"

They must have seen us, for bullets ricocheted from the golden metal below, flying off into space with a tink and deafening crack. With outstretched hand I kept Elizabeth against the statue's cold skin as we climbed, realizing in my handgun I had only a round or two remaining. From the garden below the zeppelin continued to rise. We picked up our speed, but it was no use. We'd climbed perhaps three hundred feet before the gunship came level with us. Eye to eye I could see its crews bringing their barrels to bear. My eyes widened and I threw myself atop her.

Cannon fire obliterated the statue's exterior where we'd been standing and beneath me Elizabeth shrieked. As the gun crews prepared a second volley I heard, 'Cease fire, cease fire, you idiots!" Screech over a public address speaker. "That's her!"

Far below us the hatch opened and Edmonton appeared, hobbling and burnt...not in a good mood. He fired at me with his Steyr, bullets sparking off the metal twenty feet away. Then I heard great wrenching sound. Below us a sheet of white fire sprayed through Columbia's skin, accompanied by tendrils of wild, blinding voltage. Again Elizabeth took off, away from the fire and Edmonton's bullets, only to reach a dead end landing. Desperately the girl looked back at me as if I'd somehow know what to do.

Sheared away at the torso, the head, wing and bosom of Columbia we stood upon began to slide...began to _fall_. Slammed to the surface, I saw Elizabeth scream as she was flung into the vastness of space.

About me through wet, wind blinded eyes I could see the city falling away and the blue wall of the Atlantic approaching. This was my fault, I cursed...if I'd just left her where she was she'd have been safe instead of dead. As we fell her terrified eyes met mine, arm reaching for me. With superhuman effort I twisted...managed to clench her extended hand. Cloud or something similarly brilliant flashed by, followed by the crush of frigid seawater.


	9. Chapter 9 Elizabeth

**9\. Elizabeth**

My vision was blurred as I came too. I don't know how long I'd lain there, but as my eyes opened I found myself on the floor of my office back in the Bowery. In the background a woman hummed a gospel hymn. A voice called, pounding upon the door. "Mr. DeWitt. Mr. DeWitt!" The man demanded from the hallway. As he pounded I managed to roll upward onto all fours. When I raised my head, facing me with hands back against my desk, was Elizabeth. "Bring us the girl...and wipe away the debt." She said in unison with man in the passage, whose form was only visible in silhouette through the frosted glass. Her expression was vacant...and she wasn't the one humming. "Are you in there, DeWitt?!"

"What do you want with her?" I staggered to my feet. "What do you want with her!?

"We had a deal, DeWitt!"

"Tell me what you want with her!?"

"Open this door, right now!" The shadow outside bellowed, pounding upon the wood.

"Are you going to hurt her? Tell me what you want!" I screamed. Elizabeth remained where she was, motionless, seemingly in a trance. With fear in my soul I rushed for the door, placed my hand upon the glass and swung it open to blinding light. In the glory I heard a man coughing...felt someone pushing upon my chest. The light resolved to Elizabeth's waterlogged form, blue eyes stricken amid disheveled hair. With her forceful compressions water spurted from my mouth. Again I gagged. Finally I drew a clean breath and she stopped, desperation on her face replaced by a look of overwhelming relief.

"Anna?" I rasped.

"No, it's me...Elizabeth." She said slowly, brow raised in concern. She touched my face with her back of hand. "Are you all right?"

"Where...am I?"

"Back in the land of the living." Above her seagulls coursed by in the blue against a backdrop of fleecy clouds. I felt her take my hand. "Here, let me..." She began with a smile.

"I'll be fine."

"You almost drowned..." Both of her hands embraced mine. "You need to..."

I yanked my hand away. "I said...I'm fine." She pulled away, hurt. It didn't matter. I didn't need her sympathy and I didn't want attachments. I had a job to do. Only...not now.

Backward I slumped into the sand, eyes upon the sky. With a knit of brow her dismay turned to consternation, and with a huff she crossed her arms and turned away. I lay there for God knows how long, listening to the surf, occasionally seeing her worried attention upon my form. Against the chill of the wind her arms remained about herself, and as we dried she took to sitting upon her side...marveling at the seascape. At first all I could hear was the wind, waves and gulls, but after a while something else touched my ears.

Her ears perked too. "Do...do you hear that? _Ohhh!_ " She pined. "It's music!" Touching her hand to her chest, she looked at me fleetingly then back toward the reverie. Like a puppy unable to control herself, she rose from the sand, looking eagerly down the bearch.

"Go on...I just need to..." I said, not completing my thought.

"Okay, a...ahhh...I won't be long. I won't be long, Mr. DeWitt! It's just down the beach!" She answered before dashing away. I slumped back into the sand.

#

When finally I came to there was only blue sky and the wash of the waves. Thrusting myself upright upon an encrusted elbow, I scanned the surf and sea oat covered dunes. Upward I sat, putting the gulls picking the sand beside me to flight. To the right as far as the eye could see I saw only waves and whitecaps, breakers that crashed in stiff waves upon the shore. To the left, however, I heard the music playing...and remembered.

Down shore perhaps a quarter mile I saw a long wooden pier jutting across the water from what appeared to be a hotel. Wide, arched verandas, columned breezeways and ornate frontages adorned its expansive three stories, while a long Columbian banner roiled and tossed from one of its turret's rectangular facades. Oddly it was the only bit of Columbia present, with not a single other island in sight.

I began to jog the hard, wet sand, eventually passing a handful of beach chairs, sunbathers and wooden beach booths. At my passage the men and women looked up from their towels and picnic baskets, wondering from beneath their beach umbrellas at the stranger trudging past. "Hey..." I asked one of them, a man who beside his wife was furling an umbrella. "Did you see a young woman pass this way? Blue dress, white blouse?"

Looking toward his wife with a wary glance, he shook his head at my bedraggled form. "Uhhh, can't rightly say I did."

With their eyes following I looked about, found another fellow enjoying the sun. "Hey, uhhh, Mister...I'm looking for a girl."

Before I could describe her he answered with a lascivious smile and wink of his eye. "Aren't we all?"

Realizing I was getting nowhere I ditched the holidaymakers and entered the compound through the first building, passing a rack of life guard gear and pastiche of posters. One was a fresh advertisement for a new airship, the _Versailles of the Atlantic_ , bound 'weekly now for Paris.' I felt for my envelope before moving on.

Beyond the breezeway the resort enclosed a sequestered section of beach. There were many more people here sprawled upon the sand, though not as many as one would have seen on the Fourth in Jersey. Above them prominently suspended in the sky a sign called out " _BATTLESHIP BAY"_ with the fanciful turrets of an old time seagoing dreadnaught bobbing above the establishment's third story.

Atop the first story and all about it ran a boardwalk, featuring along its length many amusements. Outward across the water jutted the pier I'd seen, adorned at its outset by patriotic bunting and a sign proclaiming, _"Dancing 'til Dusk."_

Passing more beachgoers I came to a small boat at anchor next to the pier's steps, rocking in the surf. Upon the wharf's distant end a fiddler, piano and harpsichord played " _Saddle the Pony_." Reeling to it was my girl.

Still not quite certain where the hell we were, I mounted the steps and crossed the heavy boards over the water. Several of the revelers appeared to be packing up as I passed and worried looks marred others. As I dodged a pair of women in matronly swim attire, I heard concern in their voices.

Amid the raised octagon at the end of the pier several dancers clapped in gay swimwear, happily encouraging the pirouetting woman. With the harpsichord in accompaniment, I noticed that she was oddly clean and dry. Around them open ocean receded.

As the dance turned a young buck joined in, taking her aback but only for a moment. Not appreciating the development, I tried to gain her attention. "Miss. Miss..." I said, but by now she'd turned away from me, eyes fixed upon her would be suitor. Despite my appeals her ring of admirers continued to clap, though their eyes had turned to me at my intrusion. In exasperation I yelled, " _Elizabeth!_ "

"Mr. DeWitt!?" She exclaimed, coming to face me as she turned to a stop. Glancing about she raised her arms, taking in the vastness of the coastline. "This is _wonderful_!" She said with the brightest smile, brushing disheveled hair from her eyes. " _Oh_ , come dance with me, Mr. DeWitt." She implored, holding her fingertips out. Her dance partner and audience seemed less than impressed at her abrupt shift in attention. My stern look made him less so.

"I don't dance." I grumbled, looking about for what might swoop down upon us at any moment. "Come on, let's go."

"But, _why_!?" She laughed, obviously not ready to leave. "What could be better than _this_?!" Arms flung wide, she spun amid the musicians and dancers, ponytail flying behind her. At her finish she stumbled slightly, coming unexpectedly close to me. Those blue eyes looking into mine...they were a problem.

After what we'd just been through I couldn't believe she'd be distracted by _this_ , but then again, I thought, she was young and deprived of _everything_. Who was I to judge? Amid the clouds above I could now see the first glimpse of the city, and I realized that we were indeed at sea level. As the clouds moved off, I saw the by now familiar glint of airship traffic and the poster of the _Versailles_ came to mind. "How about Paris?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Paris...but how...I don't understand...how would we get there?" She said with a shrug and shake of her head.

"The same way _I_ got _here_." I answered, pointing upward through the clouds to Columbia and the Aerodrome. "On one of those airships...there are dozens up there. One's got to be bound for Europe." Remembering her paintings, I continued. "You ever been to Paris?" Her eyes lit up. "But if you want to stay and dance..."

Her eyes had followed my finger, but she began to understand. "No, no! Let's go! Come on, let's go." She cried. "Come on, let's go right now!" Hand briefly in mine, she looked at it before leading me in a giddy dash to the sand.

#

The salt was irritating my skin, and as her black laced boots met the beach I couldn't understand why it wasn't bothering her. After a moment she stopped and turned slowly about, taking it all in. Around us beachgoers were looking, particularly the men. Amid boat rental booths and beach huts, perhaps a hundred still enjoyed the sand, towels beneath umbrellas on this cool but sunny Columbian holiday.

I came up behind her and found her less ebullient, as if she didn't know whether to be happy or sad. In passing I heard a woman make a comment beneath her breath concerning me. Elizabeth raised her hand to block the afternoon brilliance, looking about at the buildings and their patriotic bunting aloft in the breeze. "I'm out." She whispered, wind ruffling her chestnut hair. "It's hard to believe, but it's true, isn't it?" She took in a deep breath. "Ohhh..." She sighed, eyes closing. "Can you smell that?! I've never smelled...anything like that before, have you?"

"It's called a hot dog." I answered, taking her by the hand. At our approach a black haired cart attendant smiled. "Two frankfurters for the nice man and his pretty young daughter?"

"That'll do." I replied, noticing Elizabeth hanging upon our every word. Scrounging through my pockets, I managed to come up with a Columbian dime courtesy of the Ribbon. The gloves I'd worn since my arrival were gone...likely at the bottom of the Atlantic along with the Broadsider. Luckily in my vest I still had the envelope and coins. Frankfurters in hand, we headed toward the Bay's lower entrance.

After an indecisive study she took a bite and clenched her eyes. "Mmmmm...delishous." Still nursing a headache from my drowning, I took a bite of my own. In no mood to dally I scarfed it down before hastening her toward a nearby entrance. Away from the dancers we could hear a calliope above hooting the notes of a foreign but amusing tune.

At the top of the entryway's stair we encountered a turnstile, a puzzle that vexed her. Three times she approached, only to be turn back at their resistance. Finally she summoned the courage to push, then looking back at them like they were some snapping dog. Having finished our dinner we found ourselves in an arcade, a gift shop overflowing with paraphernalia celebrating the city and its sainted Founders.

At the souvenir shop's far end an arched window shed light upon the interior. From beside his counter a weathered attendant in red and white striped jacket noted our arrival. Aside from him, we were alone. Near the center of the room hung a prominent poster protruded from a barrel of the same name. _"FATHER COMSTOCK – Our Prophet."_

The portrait was familiar...the visage I'd seen in the distance at the park...severe but handsome, aged, white beard and mustache giving the appearance of a gaunt Saint Nick. Licking her fingers, Elizabeth fretted. "Mr. DeWitt...Comstock. I've read about him. They say he can see the future."

Had they not _told_ her? "Give a man a little power..." I said, looking for the resemblance in her face. "He falls into all kinds of love with himself."

"I don't like his look." At her observation the attendant looked up to us, beady green eyes visible from beneath the brim of his white straw hat. Drawing closer, Elizabeth's voice reached me in a whisper. "Can we leave now?"

#

We pressed up another flight of stairs onto the deck above. Noticing that her benefactor was not only damp but still carrying sand, she smirked. "That fall into the water did you no favors. We need to find a way to dry out."

"You seem to have done well enough." I observed. She was bone dry, with not a grain of sand upon her skirt or blouse. Or in her hair. "There may be baths here, or a shower we can rinse off in." I managed, inspecting for danger everyone who passed us by. "Only thing is, now that I've got you I'm not gonna let you out of my sight."

She was looking at me, studying now _my_ face as she walked alongside. "How old...how old are you, Mr. DeWitt?"

"South of forty..." I said, looking over her youthful face and form. "North of you." Whatever she'd been prying at, my quip seemed to shut her down. As we emerged onto the boardwalk I saw a group of Constabulary setting up a checkpoint at the zeppelin docks above. Before us vendors hawked trinkets from canvas tents. As we came into sunlight she puzzled and stopped.

"Mr. DeWitt...look at these, they're just like the key!" Amid several pieces of jewelry lay two neck pendants, each gold rimmed of black onyx. One was of a golden cage, its twin a songbird. "Which one do you like more, this one?" She asked nodding toward the bird. "Or this." Tipping her head toward the cage. This dawdling exasperated me, but I couldn't help but notice that savaged pinkie. "The one on the right." I sighed, gesturing toward the bird.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Elizabeth." Why she couldn't make up her own mind eluded me. I also realized she wanted the damned thing. My hand sunk into the coin pouch. "How much?"

The sandy haired main smiled, looking us both over. "Three Eagles."

"Robbery." I said, but Elizabeth was holding the pendant to her chest, eyes concerned that I might welch. With a sigh I forked over the coins, wondering at this rate how long Laslowe's stack might last. Appending it to a lace choker, the attendant handed it to the girl with a smile.

"I love it!" She said, drawing the fabric about her slender neck. She turned to me for approval. Unfortunately I wasn't looking at her any longer. As the clouds continued to clear people had begun pointing upward. From about us we began to hear gasps and frightened sobs. High above smoke rose from the wreckage of Monument Island, whose head and an entire shoulder were missing. About its remaining heights airships and zeppelins hung, shooting arcs of water. Sporadically a section sheared away, tumbling into the ocean below.

"It has to be the Vox! Who else would do such a thing?!" I heard a woman cry.

"Are you okay?" I asked at Elizabeth's side. Her eyes remained upward.

"That was my home." She whispered with strained brow. "Who was that man? He seemed like he knew you, but he must not...I've never been shot at before."

"Edmonton. A bad judgement on my part. I...thought he was an ally. I was wrong. If it makes you feel better, he wasn't shooting at you." I glanced after her. "By the way that place came apart, I doubt we'll be seeing him again."

From the clouds one of the zepps was breaking off and commencing a descent. Losing its profile in the waning sun, I realized it was turning our way. "We should get out of here."

Next to us a pair of women were sobbing. "Yes." Elizabeth said, eyes flitting between them and the descending gunship. "Yes, we should. Let's go."

If we'd had any hope of an easy escape our entry into the Arcade's lobby dashed it. Not only were the police searching people on the deck above, but they'd set up a checkpoint below just before the ticketing booths. I pulled Elizabeth back into the hallway.

"What's happening?" She asked, tugging nervously at her ponytail.

"Those men are the same sort that came after us in the zeppelin...the ones who shot the hell out of your home." I glanced to my hand. "You wouldn't happen to have any gloves on you, would you?"

She shook her head. "They'll recognize us?"

"They'll put you back in your prison and I'll be dead."

After a shocked moment her gaze turned from me toward the crowd, people shouting questions about what had happened above and who was to blame. One by one the constables were patting them down. Elizabeth hazarded a step forward...allowed herself a peek down an adjacent corridor. "I think I have just the thing." I looked at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about. "Will you come with me?"

"Come with you?"

The puppy had returned. I could see her tail wagging. "Yes...come on!"

"Wait... _I'm_ the one getting us out of here. You said it yourself, you've never been out of that tower."

She took me by the hand, looking up to me with eager blue eyes. "Yes, but I _can_ see down a corridor. Come on!"

Against my better judgement I followed, passing a bum on his haunches who asked if I could spare a bit or two. Ignoring him, Elizabeth and I arrived at pair of doors, doors that did not give when I attempted their handles. "Brilliant, Elizabeth. Damn thing's locked."

She smirked at me and drew a pin from her hair, slipped past me to kneel at the keyhole. "What are you doing?!" I exclaimed in hushed voice.

"You're a roguish type..." She whispered without looking back. "What does it _look_ like?" Suddenly the lock clicked. "Done!" She said. The handle turned at her behest. I stood there dumfounded as she opened one side. Pleased at her achievement, she turned back to me and grinned.

"Where did _you_ learn to pick locks?!"

"Trapped in a tower with _nothing_ but _books_ and _spare time_?" She shook her head and chuckled, somewhere else, unconsciously wrapping her arms about herself. "You would be _surprised_ what I know how to do."

#

Elizabeth had chosen well. The Arcade's back corridors were for the better part empty, passages which turned out to be an viable approach to the airship ticketing booths above. As Elizabeth fretted a new pair of turnstiles a woman in a flying uniform looked our way, sequestering her compact.

"Annabelle?

"Excuse me?" Elizabeth responded

"Annabelle, it's me, Esther."

A puzzled Elizabeth crossed her arms but smiled anyway. "Oh, no, I'm not Annabelle. I'm Elizabeth."

"Are...you sure?"

"My name is Elizabeth." She repeated, cordial but wary. "Do...I know you?"

" _Elizabeth..."_ The woman repeated, hands upon hips. Turning from us, she slipped through the turnstile and made toward a flight of red carpeted stairs. "Isn't that a lovely name?"

Elizabeth looked at me and I her before following through the turning wickets. Near the stair a hotel busboy was announcing, "Last customers...park's closing. Park's closing!" My ward was as puzzled as me as we mounted the flight.

"That was odd."

"Yes, it was." I said, stopping to peer out a grand arched window. Across the rounding beach outside the blue swell of the Atlantic coursed forty feet below. "Something's not right."

My observation did little to put Elizabeth at ease. With renewed caution we carried on. At the next landing past a shoeshine man we entered a livelier portion of the arcade. Red carpet with golden trim adorned our way, while amusements of all manner lined gilded walls. Despite the place's impending closure many people remained at play amid the festive calliope we'd heard before.

The dazzle caught Elizabeth's eye, the girl turning curiously and with starts toward each unfamiliar pop or ring. A sign proclaimed, " _Ticketing This Way._ " I took her by the arm and led her on our way.

A staircase later we found ourselves in the waiting area for the air service up. The woman we'd seen earlier was there, waiting alongside a handful of others for boarding. For a moment her eyes hung uncomfortably upon me.

"Are hot dogs everywhere in Columbia?" Elizabeth asked as we passed another cart, the side burned vendor in the process of satisfying a patron's hankering for sauerkraut.

"Where ever there is money and hungry mouths." I mumbled.

Perhaps she was still hungry because she took a great interest in the transaction. Near the counter a man was playing a violin. At my approach he stopped. The hair on my neck was standing on end. Behind the counter sat a mustachioed attendant, turned away from me, dapper in a white shirt, vest and dark gray vest. Talking into a hand receiver, his Bowler hat was tipped at a precarious angle.

"Two tickets for passage to the Aerodrome." He continued to ignore me. Ticking loudly upon the wall behind him, a clock made his disrespect worse. I rang the bell. He ignored me so I smacked it again

"Yeah? Just a minute, friend. Yeah, I have it." He said furtively. "Uh, how do you, uh, want to proceed?"

"In a bit of a rush, pal."

Looking back over his shoulder at me the man mumbled, "I got it. I'll ring you back after the matter is in hand. Yeah, send 'em in. We're ready to execute."

"Excuse me, but could I get some God damned help here?!"

He hung up the phone...turned to me with a smile. "Certainly, Sir..." A Bowie knife appeared above his white curled sleeve. "Sorry about the wait!" He brought it over his shoulder and down into my hand, sinking the hilt to flesh. I looked on in shock, my appendage spewing blood, impaled to the counter and screamed. From the corner of my eye I saw Elizabeth looking on in horror. She twisted to motion behind her.

" _What are you doing?!_ " I heard her exclaim as the violinist went for her arms. _No!_ I thought. Somewhere not far away a woman shouted, "Get the girl!"

Again the violinist lunged for Elizabeth, but she slapped him back, screaming, "Get off of me!" Squarely my little puppy kicked the goon right in the balls. A for effort, I thought. The blow from her leather boot sent the bastard to his knees, groaning, followed by a wave of bright yellow vomit. At that point the hot dog vendor tipped his cart and the flyer drew a weapon.

Blood gushing from my wound, I yanked the blade clean and spun about, realizing as I did so that I'd been lucky...it had gone straight between my ring and index fingers with no broken bones. For a moment the sight of it caused my knees to go weak.

Seeing the vendor's shotgun emerge, Elizabeth's dove for cover. The ticket man had come out of his booth now, turning with a pistol for my head. To his shock I jammed his knife back between his eyes.

A shotgun blast tore the façade from the ticket booth. Whipping about as the ticket man collapsed in a pool of his own brains, I went for the gun and came up shooting, hitting the hot dog vendor through the neck across the room in a bloody spray against the wall.

From behind the column where the violinist had been seated the flying woman appeared, Broadsider in hand, barrel shaking. To my left I heard terror...saw Elizabeth in flight up a rise of stairs. The flyer wasn't much of a fighter because she hesitated pulling the trigger. For a moment I wondered if she were even going to. I hadn't survived Wounded Knee, the PI and the Rocks by relying on other people's good intentions or failed bad ones. Faster than she could follow I dove and rolled, coming into an upright crouch with dead ticket man's weapon. Two shots rang out and she went down with a thud.

Across the room I heard a groan from where the vendor had fallen. When I strode to his side he was remarkably still alive. By the amount of blood and way his eyes were glazing over I figured he wouldn't be much longer. Ripping the shotgun from his grasp I spun and cleared the room, seeing that the woman was still moving. Why men would let a girl do their dirty work eluded me. She was a loose end.

I cocked the shotgun and walked over to her, holding its barrel to her head as she groaned, bleeding out upon the floorboards. With great effort she turned to look up at me with wet, blue eyes.

Dammit, I thought and uncocked.

Relieving her of her of her firearm, I shoved it into my chest holster, searched her bloodied frame to find another magazine. Pocketing it, I went after the girl.

"Elizabeth!"

Around the corner ahead I heard " _Stay away from me!_ "

The stairs led to an airship platform, against which hung a modest zeppelin. At my approach and the brandish of the shotgun the crowd parted, screaming women, children and men shirking to from my path. Elizabeth had joined them.

"You, stay!" I commanded, panning about. I ordered the rest offboard.

"Get away from me!" She shrieked anew. Undeterred, I burst into the passenger compartment and tailed her toward the cockpit. Inside a pilot threw himself against his controls in fear.

"You're him." He said shirking away, hands up at my bloody gun...looking at my face. Elizabeth was trying to squeeze past me for the door. With a kick I slammed it shut.

Grabbing him by the collar, I put the double barrel to his head. "You're goddammed right I am, and after your friends' welcoming committee back there I'm all out of patience. Take us up to the Aerodrome...and I ain't gonna ask a _second_ time."


	10. Chapter 10 High Passage

**10\. High Passage**

As the pilot put the dirigible into flight the scent of urine tainted the air. Elizabeth had her back up against the windows, staring at me. As Columbia became visible a mile above I made sure to keep my barrels firmly on our driver.

"You killed those people..." She said, voice a quiver. "I can't believe you did that. They're all dead. _You're a monster!_ " Tears were running down her cheeks.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Her hair was a mess now, fine brown teased and astray from her wrecked blue bow. Once more I glanced to the pilot who redoubled his fixation with his panel. "Hmmm?"

"What?" She asked, though she wouldn't look at me.

"Do you understand the _expense_ these people went to keep you locked up in that tower? Do you think people like that are just going to...going to let you _walk away_? You are an _investment_ , and you will not be safe until you are far away from here."

Despite her aversion I could see she was listening, face dire. "What am I?" She asked almost imperceptibly, then more loudly. "What do they want from me?"

"I don't know. But that's the last time anyone gets the drop on me."

Elizabeth's hand rose to her chest then looked back to me, remorse in her eyes. Taking my oozing hand into hers, she reached down and tore a strip hem from her dress. "Let me see that." As she bound the blue strip about my wound I winced. "What happened back there...it's not the last of it, is it?"

"I don't know." I answered, not wishing to frighten her even more. _Monster._ So very right she was, and she didn't even know the half of it.

Finishing her wrap, Elizabeth seemed buoyed but in a sad fashion, as if her gesture at healing could somehow make recompense the bloodshed I'd done. "There."

I held my appendage up...clenched my fist. It hurt like hell, but it worked. I could hit and I could fire. I handed her the shotgun and nodded to the pilot. "Keep it on him. If he does something funny, shoot. I have to sit for a minute."

As we rose the aerial traffic grew, and with the Columbian Archipelago in sight we made for the commuting docks of the Aerodrome. In the distance above Emporia the Monument still smoldered, though the fires appeared out. Across from me Elizabeth looked implausible with the shotgun in hand.

Had he doubts of her capability, our chauffer didn't show them. As we came alongside the boarding arm and the boys outside began to rope us in, I whipped his crown with the pommel of the Mauser. He crumpled to the deck, unconscious. Elizabeth recoiled. "He'll be all right." I figured. "He's just unconscious. _Nite-nite_ is better than _dead-dead_ , don't you think?" She didn't answer. Stepping to the cabin's coat closet, I retrieved a pair of cloaks and offered her one. "Stick close to me and try to blend in with the crowd."

"Yes, Mr. DeWitt." She whispered, staring vacantly at the unconscious pilot upon the deck.

I offered my hand. "Call me Booker."

"Uh...oh, all right..." She said, eyes turning. Finally she accepted my offer. "Booker."

#

As we disembarked the first thing I noticed was that all was not well in the fair flying city. The monument had been easy to see from here and below, followed as it was by a plume of smoke, but as I looked down across Emporia and the surrounding islands more than one rose. Approaching a business type in a fine suit, I gestured toward one of the conflagrations below. "Just got in from Battleship Bay. Any idea of what's going on down there?" At my side Elizabeth looked on attentively.

"Sorry, friend, all I know is that they're evacuating all non-nationals from the city. Constabulary claims that there's an insurrection underway and told the populace to return to their homes...and us to get out. You ever heard of this 'False Shepherd?"

"Can't rightly say I have."

Beside us Columbian soldiers disembarked a newly alighted military dirigible, rushing past us, heading toward another boarding arm. "They say he's here...and in league with the devil herself, Daisy Fitzroy. I heard tell that the felling of the Monument was her Vox doing, and that there's gonna be a lot more. They even took over the Arsenal, and if they got the Arsenal..."

"They'll soon have Columbia."

"Well, in any event I'm getting out. It's going to be a long, bad night.

Carrying on with Elizabeth in tow, it seemed that soldiers were running everywhere. As a mountainous chain of clouds approached from the west, Constabulary and troops in gondolas and blimps descended toward the streets below.

"What, what is that?" She said, studying intensely the floating white monoliths hanging off Emporia.

"Finkton." I answered, remembering Edmonton. More than smokestack fire was coming from them now, and I didn't have to wonder long to figure he was possibly a part of this.

#

Elizabeth wasn't the stoutest girl in the world and I kept her close, afraid that someone might be waiting in the crowds to snatch her away. As we walked the inner curve of the concourse leaden drops began to pelt the windows. Shortly they commenced to downpour. Soon water was sluicing, and from the outer verandas refugees dove inside for cover

As people scurried beneath overhangs and into the inner portions of the terminal, the girl and I made our way up a flight of steps to the central ticketing booths. Like others wearing slickers, I turned my hood upward to avoid the eyes of the omnipresent police. I felt Elizabeth's hand slip from mine, fingertip rising to trace the misted glass.

"So, Mr. DeWitt. Is...there a woman in your life?"

Her question caught me off guard, though I figured it was like a woman to wonder such things. It took me a while to answer. "There was. She...died."

" _How_?" Elizabeth asked softly, somehow expressing a raft of sympathy and inquisitiveness in a single syllable.

I sighed, remembering her screams, the newborn's cries and finally the silence of me alone in my apartment. "Giving birth."

"Oh." Naïve as she was, had she ever considered such a thing possible? It was a fate in store for so many women. Not looking directly at me, she examined her fingers. "You...you have a child?"

After so many years the memory still remained a cauterized bullet hole. "No." Though I remained quiet she stayed close at my side. The silence made me uncomfortable. "Why do you ask?"

"When you were laying on the beach, you kept saying a woman's name...Anna." She glanced upward to me, almost as if she weren't supposed to have heard it.

Through the driving rain I could still see a hint of Emporia through the glass. Despite the storm the fires below appeared to be spreading. "I don't want to talk about that." I said quietly but firmly. I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but it hurt too much.

Attending her thimbled finger, which I'd noticed to be a habit, Elizabeth bowed her head. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried. Would you mind telling me _where_ you're from, Mr. DeWitt?"

"New York."

"New York. You mean the city?" For a moment her eyes kindled, and in the blue I saw her dreams of far off places. "What did you...do there?"

"Business much like this." I answered, my thought drifting back to the Bowery and McSorley's and a hundred other dives. Whatever vision was in her eyes, it wasn't _my_ New York. "Not something that caters to writing on a resume. "You know, I never even heard of this place before I got here."

"Really? I assumed Columbia was common knowledge below." She said off hand, distracted by the clearing rainstorms outside...the emerging heights of the city.

"I guess I got a bit behind with current events." With a sweep of my arm I drew her back behind a corner as people filed by.

"What is it?" She asked, suddenly on edge.

Long lines had formed where Columbia's police had set up shop on Aerodrome's Promenade. Their line I could now see was between us and the ticketing booths. Ahead I heard, "Identification please. Have your photographic identification ready or you'll not be travelling." Realizing we were in trouble, I looked about. Beneath the domed glass roof of its central rotunda the airship lines handled steamer trunks and conducted ticketing. That was where we needed to go to check in, and from where we were at the only approach took us through the check point.

"Why don't we just stow away?" Elizabeth whispered eagerly.

"A reasonable plan if we didn't get thrown off into the ocean below, but it still doesn't get us to a single airship." Spying a maintenance corridor and recollecting my spelunking after Augney, I nodded back the way we'd come. "I've got an idea."

"Where are we going?" She said with wide eyes.

I cast back over my shoulder to ensure we'd not been followed. "To find a way around."

Passing a sign that proclaimed, "Authorized Personnel Only," I hustled Elizabeth back into the maintenance way. Unlike the white and gray marble elegance of the Promenade the stonework here was darker, brick rather than marble. From my arrival I'd seen the place to have multiple levels and searched for a stair. We found an elevator instead.

"This might do." I said, pushing the button. Inside its shaft a loud clunking could be heard, the sound of cables and machinery.

"This is like the one back in my tower." Elizabeth said, looking to the button and back to me as the bell rung. The doors opened and she jumped back.

I ditched the cloak and stepped inside. "Come on."

Apprehensively she doffed hers and followed, inspecting the panel. We were on the fifth floor. "If I'm reading this right, we're at the top?"

"That's right." I said, pressing for the first. "There's bound to be other passages and other elevators. We'll find one and pop up beyond the checkpoint, check our passes and do it again to get to the ship. Then we're scot free."

" _Scot free_?"

The doors closed. It means, uh, free. Not _caught_."

"Then why didn't you just say ' _free'_?"

I punched the first floor. "It's just a figure of speech."

"A figure of speech?" I shook my head. I was anxious and more than a little worried. One false move and we were done for...and I was dead. I found myself looking at her silver tip.

"If you want to ask me, ask me."

"About what?"

"My finger."

"Ah, I'm sorry I didn't..."

"It's all right." She studied the stub with a distance in her eyes. "It's as much of a mystery to me as anyone else."

"Well, uh...I'm sorry..."

"What for?" Holding her hand palm toward me, she inspected the ornament's backside. "I get to wear this stylish thimble to cover up my hideous deformity." Her countenance darkened, turning it between thumb and forefinger. "I hear they're all the rage in Paris."

As the third bell rung, the lift jerked and rocked to a halt. Thrown backward, Elizabeth gasped and caught the wall.

"What the hell?!" I drew my Mauser. Somewhere outside I heard a muffled thump and cries.

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth worried, glancing about.

Whatever had occurred reverberated...like an explosion. "I don't know, but we gotta get this thing moving." I joined her search, finding a fuse box on the wall. Removing the panel inside its door, I was faced with four fuses and a spare. One seemed blown. As I pulled it, a buzzing I'd heard became louder.

"Ahhh...it's a bee!" Elizabeth cried, shooing it away with her hand, near panic in her voice. "I _hate_ these things!"

"Ah, Jeez..." I sighed. "Just _kill_ _it_."

"No!" She protested. "It'll sting me!"

" _Elizabeth..._ " I groaned.

"I have a better idea." By the time I'd turned from the fuse panel she'd hunched over, straining against the wall of the compartment. Only it wasn't the wall. I heard her grunt, saw her straining with her hands in thin air. Above and below her a sort of crease appeared, a distortion in the wall. With a final effort she sheared the distortion open in a bursting ring of light.

"God Almighty!" I yelped. Now it was my turn to back the wall. About her creation glowing lines undulated. A dull thrum reverberated throughout the car. The bee, which I could barely make out, flew through the apparition into blinding daylight. Between a planter of roses and hanging potted plant I saw pink and blue clouds drifting by against blue skies. It was literally a _window_ , frame and all, to the outside. An outside where it was not raining. A fresh breeze blew in from those clouds and Elizabeth sighed, closed her eyes and half turned back to me, seeming to revel in its peace.

"What...is that?" I asked in sheer terror.

She looked back at me quizzically, completely at ease and unaware that anything was amiss. "It's a tear." She said with a casual wave of her hand. "I used to open them all the time in my tower." She followed with a shrug.

"What is a ' _tear_!?" I demanded, hearing a wind that suggested precipitous heights.

Her brow tightened, obviously at a loss for words. "It's like a...a...window. A window into another world." She gestured with palms up. Turning back to the view and the clouds swirling by, she lost herself in thought. "Most of the time...they're dull as dishwater. A different colored towel, or tea instead of coffee. But sometimes, sometimes I see something _amazing_." As she looked outward I could see now she was smiling. "And I pull it through. There..." She said, pleased with herself as she plucked a rose from the planter. Turning back to me, she tucked it with a smile behind her ear.

"Good, God..." I said, now knowing _exactly_ why Laslowe, Comstock and likely every other tin pot dictator on Earth wanted to get his mitts on this woman. "I don't suppose you've got an airship in there?"

"I don't think so." She chuckled, turning to face me. Behind her movement caught my eye, shadow shifting within darkening clouds.

Seeing my change she turned back to the cloudscape and craned her head. "But there is...there is something. I..." Closer to the planter she leaned, eyes narrowed. What had before been faintest shade resolved into an enormous shape, birdlike, soaring, wings flapping, eyes casting orange beams of fire through the murk. Her eyes widened. "Oh, _no!_ " She wailed. Obviously seeing her portal, whatever the hell the thing was dove upon it like a hawk, eyes blazing beacons. It was enormous.

"Close it." I commanded, composed but insistent.

"I'm _trying!_ " She exclaimed, reaching and yanking air inward to no avail.

" _Close_ it!" I yelled. Bringing her hands together, a pink flash bloomed and the apparition imploded. The gargantuan bird's red eyes had been upon us. In our short hours together, even in the fall, I'd seen Elizabeth afraid, but not _this_ afraid. She collapsed against the elevator wall, trembling, and sunk to her haunches. Still reeling, I realized that we remained stuck. I replaced the burnt out fuse with shaking hand and the elevator began suddenly to move anew. Elizabeth was nearly catatonic. The lift descended another floor or two before its doors opened with a ding. Sheepishly she looked up to me.

"I don't really understand what I just saw back there..." I said as I took her by the arm and drew her from the floor. "But it sure as hell looks like a shortcut to getting us _killed!_ " We'd emerged into a utility room, an abandoned mop and dry bucket off to the side of the door. Only now fully catching her breath, she turned away from me.

"But...I could help." She protested, head hung low.

I walked up to her, looking the girl squarely in the eye. "I can handle whatever comes along. Trust me. Don't do that again."


	11. Chapter 11 Paris?

**11\. Paris**

Though the elevator was very much on my mind as we left it behind, I forced myself to focus on cashing in the two return boarding passes Laslowe had provided. With the troops arriving outside, the maintenance passages were deserted. Eventually we came to what seemed the center of the facility and a bank of elevators. Seeking out a stairwell, we took it up.

Climbing silently at first, I eventually had to ask. "Do you mind me asking what the hell that was?"

"I told you..." She said, reluctant to look at me. "It was a tear."

"Not that." I said, remembering the odd sketches I'd seen in her painting room. "I mean the giant goddammed vulture."

"I don't know." She said. Her anxious face said differently.

"That's bullshit, kid. You had pictures of the damned thing all over your walls back at Our Lady of Eternall Solitude. Cough it up."

"You wouldn't tell me about your family." She countered weakly. "Why should I..."

I took her arm and stopped her. "Because I think our damned survival might just depend on it. Tell me what you know...now."

I saw the face of a frightened child. "I...I used to dream about him."

" _Him?_ " I asked.

"I called him Songbird. When I was a little girl I...I used to dream about him. Sometimes he was my friend. Sometimes he was in my nightmares. I never...thought he was real." Though it was drawing to the end of a hellacious first day in Columbia, I suddenly found myself back when I'd first seen her through the glass, looking at her postcard of Paris. On the wall of one of the rooms she'd had something else besides romantic towers. A bird.

"He sure as hell seemed real."

Her hand clasped the stairwell's railing. "I've often wondered if my tears were just a form of wish fulfillment. I mean, not real at all, just me making things..."

"From nothing?" She looked at me, and for a moment I realized that I might just be the only thing in her life she trusted. "How did you, uh, eat?" I said. "Or get clothing or take care of your needs? Did you, uh, make all that too?"

She smirked. "Goodness, no. There was a dumbwaiter. I think, well I think you fell through it. Every day my meals would be delivered and anything else I asked for, within reason. Once and a while I'd receive a handwritten note. I never realized that the tower had been abandoned."

"But you knew you were in a tower?"

"When I grew older."

I grinned and crossed my arms. "They call you the Lamb, you know."

"And you the False Shepherd." She said with a smirk. "Let's not call each other that."

Finishing our climb, we emerged in a utility room off the Ticketing Rotunda. Looking out from its doors we discovered the plaza in an uproar with lines of people fighting one another to get tickets.

Beside me Elizabeth was looking about, shifting uneasily. "What is the matter with you?" I asked.

She seemed embarrassed. "I...I really have to go to the bathroom. How do they do that out here?"

What a treat she was in for. Spying a ladies' powder room across the Rotunda's black and white checker tile, I raised my bandaged hand and pointed. "There. That's a powder room."

"I don't need powder." She said. "I just need to go."

"Elizabeth..." I said, not sure whether to laugh or cry. "It's a euphemism. Women don't like having to say when they have to tinkle."

"That seems rather inefficient." She looked the way of the lavatory and started to walk. "I'll be right back, Mr. DeWitt."

"It's Booker." I mumbled again but by then she was nearly out of earshot. I watched her like a hawk, but for all of my bathroom wisdom I had ulterior motives.

With one eye on the loo and the other on escape, I headed for the White Star counter. The attendants regarded me as if I'd been in a wreck, which I had. For a moment I feared I'd drawn attention to myself, yet about me others were similarly bedraggled. I heard tell of a revolt in Finkton and southern Emporia. People seemed of great mind to get out.

I pushed few Silver Eagles into the purser's hand and got our tickets punched, accommodations on the _Star of the Atlantic_ bound for New York City. As I finished Elizabeth's eyes found mine. We met before the line for the _Versailles_. She'd brushed her hair.

"Paris!" She exclaimed as she drew closer. "I can't believe it. Oh, Mr. DeWitt...how long will it take to get there?"

"You mean, _assuming_ we get on the ship?"

"Of course."

"About a day. Depending on the winds, I suppose. A day and night and some change."

"So fast!" She said in amazement. "I've never been on an airship before."

A headache was setting in and I was eager for a hot shower...to rest my throbbing hand. Realizing our journey needed to take us back to the Promenade, I led the giddy girl back toward the utility room. There were even less people than before as we descended, discovering basements tinged with the scent of oil and smoke. Finding our way through deserted passages we climbed anew, emerging beyond the search lines. Gaining my bearings, I found us just off the arches of one of the boarding arms.

Darkness had fallen, leaving a cloud swept vault of stars beyond the glass. Floodlights illuminated the gantries, and three airships down I saw the _Star of the Atlantic_...just beyond the _Versailles of the Atlantic_. Distraction was in order.

Across Emporia, Finkton and Shantytown fires burned, flaring frighteningly in some places. Occasionally I saw the spark of gunfire. After my ride with Edmonton out to the Monument, I found myself not quite as petrified of heights. Perhaps, I thought, it was because it was at night. Following my lead she yawned. I smiled at her. She smiled at me.

As we approached the _Star's_ gangway I began to worry. Signs were posted and the _Atlantic was_ the furthest vessel out. Refugees about us were fretting over whether they'd get to Paris or not. _Not_ good. I kept her talking about her life and painting and what she wanted to do once _we_ got to Paris, managing to get her past the danger and onboard the _Atlantic_ none the wiser.

She liked to talk.

In contrast to the drafty Promenade and chill boarding arm, the passageways on the _Star of the Atlantic_...err, ' _Versailles of the Atlantic_ ,' were warm and luxuriant. A red carpet took us to our quarters along a passage hung with pastoral paintings, a single accommodation I'd taken the liberty of registering to _Mr. and Mrs. Booker DeWitt_. With Elizabeth none the wiser, the steward showed us to our cabin and tucked us in.

Rearward I could hear the motors idling and the wind whistling through the wires. I locked the door, headed to a plush red chair and dropped into it. Removing the bag I'd secreted my gear in, I tossed the weapon to the table along with the spare Broadsider clip. I closed my eyes.

I heard a door open. Saw Elizabeth looking in to the lavatory. "It's beautiful." She said, looking about with a most pleased expression.

"Not as pretty as your place was." I said, already half fallen asleep.

"A cage is still a cage." She scowled. "And there is nothing _pleasant_ about a cage, no matter how beautiful it might be." She ran her fingertips along the doorframe and mirror. In her reflection touched the pendant with a sigh. "This is freedom."

"Freedom from salt and grunge. I studied her oddly clean hair anew. "I'd recommend a change of clothes...and maybe a bath."

"Oh, that does sound so wonderful. But what about my...our clothes?"

"There's likely a robe there in the closet. I'll have the porter take care of your blouse and skirt. I'm going to try some sleep."

"Okay, Mr. DeWitt." She said again, stepping into the bathroom to draw a hot tap. "You promise you won't look?"

My eyelids were closed and I was fast on my way to oblivion. "I promise I won't look." I mumbled, hands draped over the chair's armrest.

"Oh, I want to see Paris!" She sighed. "I want to see everything! With a gleeful grin she slipped into the bath. I heard muffled explorations, the reopening of the door. Her outfit sailed out upon the floor.

I looked at the pile of blue with one open eye, sighed and rose to collect it. Outside in the passage a Negro was walking by, dressed in a porter's pants and jacket. Upon his jacket a gold nameplate called out "Mr. Ellington."

"Uh, hello." I said. He had exceptionally dark skin. At my approach the man's eyes composed themselves. I must have looked like a walking war zone to evoke that kind of reaction.

"May I be of assistance, Sir?"

I tried to fashion a believable and actionable lie. "My wife and I, well, we got caught up in all the unpleasantness going on in Emporia this evening."

"Yes, Sir. I've heard about that. Something about anarchists?"

"Yes, uh, anarchists." I presented Elizabeth's accoutrements. "It's just that...well, we...my wife has nothing to wear other than what was on our backs. Is there any chance you might be able to wash these and get them back posthaste? I can pay."

Looking at the garments and particularly her unmentionables, he forced a smile. "Many people are indeed in the same unfortunate predicament this evening, Mr...?"

"DeWitt. Booker DeWitt. My wife...uh, Annabelle, well, she'd really appreciate it. She's taking a bath now and down to just the robe."

Ellington sighed but smiled nonetheless. "I shall see what I can do, Sir."

"Excellent." I said, shaking his hand with two Eagles in palm. "By the way, have you any idea of how long it might be before we cast off?"

Ellington seemed uncertain. "Well, Sir, we were supposed to depart on the hour but the Columbian authorities have delayed us. No traffic has been authorized to depart for the last four hours, although the Captain has assured us that restriction will soon be lifted."

"I see." Having greased the skids I smiled but was inwardly worried. "Thank you, Mr. Ellington. I shall look forward to your visit.

"And _your_ clothing, Sir?" He asked, with an eye on my salt laden vest and pants, the ones that had made my life a misery since the Arcade below.

"I think I'll have to wait until the lady is done with her bath."

Ellington tipped his hat. "Excellent, Sir. I shall come by presently."

Back in our cabin I heard the girl humming from behind the door, the same tune I'd heard as a voyeur overlooking her library. "Do you mind me asking what song that is?"

"Song?" Came her muffled reply. I heard the wash of water and a sigh.

"Yeah. Hmmm Hmm Hmmm Hmm, Hmm hmmm hmmm hmm..." I butchered.

Like a bell her laughter rang. "I think it's 'Loved Ones in the Glory, Mr. DeWitt, or something like that. I really don't know for certain. My...religion tutor, Mrs. Oliver, she sang it to me several years ago...before, well..." She paused, her tone turning less whimsical. "Before she stopped coming."

I absorbed her change of mood. Since Annabelle's death and despite the people around me, I knew what it was like to be alone. "I'm sorry you had to live like that. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"Neither would I." She said, not bothering to elaborate. After a swooshing of tub water I heard her rise and the tub drain. She'd quit humming, probably because I'd ruined if for her, and after a few moments emerged wet from the lavatory clad in white robe, white towel about her hair, feet bare. "Your turn." She said demurely from beneath the towel, those damned blue eyes looking up at me like I was the savior of her universe. Removing her head wrap as we passed one another, she allowed damp chestnut to fall.

"It's about time." I joked, unable to miss her curves even in the robe.

"I'm sorry, Mr. DeWitt." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm not used to having to share." As she finished her eyes darted about, brow contorting in a mild panic. "You...wouldn't have seen a hairbrush about, would you?"

I glanced outside into the night and row of illuminated airships idling beside us. Thankfully the _Versailles of the Atlantic_ wasn't on our side, but we still had yet to move. "Can't rightly say I do. Ask Ellington, the Steward. He might have one."

"Really?" She answered, the concept that you could just ask someone for something here oddly foreign.

"Yeah. Just ask."

I turned away troubled, not by the bath but what I was thinking. Inside was a red enamel tub and two brass taps. I closed the door behind me. Throwing the hot I saw steaming water flow. Scarf, vest and shirt I shed, removing my tank undershirt and pants to a mound upon the floor. In the mirror beneath a thin filigree of dark hair my chest was marred by Elizabeth's book bruises, my normally brown hair dull with grime. I clenched my fist, the pain rippling from my wound through the sinew and meat of my forearm and shoulder.

The Army and my years with the Pinkertons had done well to keep me fit, while the cash flow issue had deterred any fat upon the bones I'd managed to keep unbroken. Yet the muscle I now looked upon in the mirror hurt more than in the past. Though I still looked hale, I could definitely feel autumn settling into my bones. Adding some cold, I slipped into the water and felt the heat sooth my chafed, scarred flesh. I soaped up, rinsed my hair...listened to the girl once more humming outside. Inexorably my thoughts strayed to Annabelle.

Annabelle Watson had been the apple in every lad's eye on Fort Riley when I'd arrived in 1889, the daughter of Major Bartholomew Watson whose family had connections to West Point and New York money and, as I later discovered, didn't like me one damned bit. The first time I saw her I was trouping on horseback past Mose Waters' store on Sheridan, wishing I could stop in for a beer or frankly anything at the canteen he'd set up in his basement. Such pleasures were not every day for a new Private.

The summer had been hot on post, typical of Kansas with the Mercury north of ninety, yet there she'd been, dressed in pale blue dress, knee length boots and matching parasol, her perfect face having not a bead of perspiration upon it. She'd been talking beneath the big shade trees out front with some of the veteran troopers before her eyes had landed upon me, and like Cupid's arrow through the chest I'd been smitten. A curmudgeon Sergeant had emerged from the store and shooed them off, but as she made her retreat her eyes trailed...spun that umbrella in her white gloved hands, brown hair blowing in the wind. She'd smiled my way and I knew then that destiny was unfolding.

But that was before Wounded Knee.

I woke up an indeterminate time later. The light was still on and the rumble through the ship hadn't changed...a bad omen. The water was cold and upon inspection I noticed my clothing gone.

 _How_ they were gone was something of a mystery. With the door latched but unlocked, I figured that there could only be one explanation. When I emerged it was obvious that I'd been right...we remained at berth. In the pull down Elizabeth lay quietly asleep, eyes closed and in a dressing gown, half covered by a heavy blanket. Upon the plush chair my clothes were neatly folded in a small cake. I spied her outfit hung in the closet whose door remained slightly ajar.

' _Not used to sharing.'_ I remembered as I sat on the chair, studying the subtlety of her nose and chin. Hair draped the lash of one eye, framing effortless beauty. She still wore the choker. I don't know how long I watched the rise and fall of her chest...listened to her stirring. I wondered what nightmares were troubling her brow. Maybe they were me.

Settling for the couch, I found my underwear. The robe was good for a blanket and I put my head down. On the table before me I set the flyer's automatic, just in case. New York. Paris. It didn't matter. Anywhere the hell but here.

#

I woke to sunlight streaming in through the blinds. They'd been drawn shut since I'd gone to sleep, and I squinted to noise from the bath. My Broadsider still lay on the table, alongside it holster my holstered .38. After a moment the door unlatched and Elizabeth emerged, taking one last glance in the mirror before turning surprised to find me awake.

"Mr. DeWitt!" She exclaimed, hand suddenly at her chest. A blush had come to her face, one rather intense. Nervously she looked away. "Did...did you sleep well?"

My hand hurt. My back hurt. My everything hurt. "Yeah, fine." Examining her outfit, I found it not only clean but the missing fabric from its hem restored. "I see Ellington got your clothes cleaned."

"Yes. Yes, he, uh...did. I..." She hesitated and forced herself to look at me. "I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of..."

"Getting mine cleaned while I took a nap?" She was staring at me now, mouth slightly ajar. Had she ever seen a _man_ before?

"Mr. Ellington said that other than the bullet holes and tears, this was as clean as they could get it on such short notice. He was a very nice man..." She fidgeted with her finger anew. "Apparently there are a lot of people trying to get away from this just like us. I hope it will do."

"As long as there isn't any more damned salt in it, it'll be fine." She was still looking at me, which made me for some reason nervous. "Would you mind?"

For a moment my words didn't seem to register. When they did she stood up and turned away. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" I asked, pulling on my shirt.

"I'm not used to..."

"Sharing?"

"Other people."

"You mean _men_." I smiled, drawing my trousers on.

She'd turned to the window now, palm upon the glass, looking out at the strands of fog rolling through the rank of airships. "Especially men."

"You hungry?" I asked, finishing with socks, shoes and vest. As I tied my neckerchief, I looked about.

"I'm famished. I didn't know they had food here."

"It's a passenger liner, Elizabeth. Of course they have food. You can look now."

She hesitated before turning. "Better than yesterday...evening." She stammered, the woman's eyes studying my battle torn garments in detail.

I sighed. "Okay, what would you like from the dining room?"

"Aren't we going together?" Her look was that of a puppy realizing her master was going for a walk without her. "But I thought..."

"That you'd like to get caught and taken back to your tower?"

At my insight her face fell. "But this is the _Versailles_. It's not Columbian."

I held the strip from her dress to her that I'd freshly washed. She proceeded to once more bind my hand. "We're in Columbia and a long way from, uh, Paris. Until we're far away from here, you are _not_ safe. Remember that."

#

I hit the passageway hungry and troubled. Although of similar build to the _First Lady_ , the _Star of the Atlantic_ didn't have the same layout. Berthed as we were in a high stateroom and forward, I had to think about directions. Looking for the stair down, I turned a corner to find troops in Columbian gray forcibly searching a room. Seeing their automatics and less than genteel manner I backpedaled, as I turned my gait becoming a run.

"We have to go." I said as I burst into our cabin, shocking Elizabeth who was writing out a note longhand.

Pressing my back to close the door, I saw her eyes widen. "What...what is it?"

"Goon squad." I muttered, eyes flashing left and right. Seizing the Broadsider in its harness, I threw the other magazine in my pocket and took her by the hand. "They're searching every cabin and they're armed. Don't ask me how, but they are. We have to go."

"But where?!" I saw in her eyes terrible fear. "You _can't_ let them take me back _there!_ "

I took her by her shoulders, meeting her gaze. "I've no intention of that. I've got a plan. We're going to figure out where they are and make our way to the other side of the ship. Once they've come through here, we'll sneak back in. The ship will be searched, they'll let it go and we'll be off to gay Par-ee."

"You think that will work?"

"It worked in the terminal." I said breathily. "What could go wrong?"

Heading aft we found a stairwell down, the deck swaying beneath us in the winds aloft. Elizabeth seemed to be accustomed to it, and I remembered how her tower had creaked and groaned. As for me the wallowing made me ill. Happening upon a hatch _"For Authorized Personnel Only_ ," we took it. The painting and curio dotted passenger ways now gave way to bare walls and peeling coats of leaden white. As crewmen disapproved our passing we came to a utility lift and slipped within. With many more decks above us than below, I chose up.

Elizabeth had been asking questions the whole way. I'd been shaking my head. Finally alone, I let her speak.

"Mr. DeWitt, please, where are we going?"

"I told you. To the other side of the ship."

Looking about with arms crossed, she bit her lower lip. "This doesn't look like the other side of the ship."

"That's because we're not _there_ yet." I sighed. By the way those crewmen had looked at us I wasn't certain we would even get there. The lift bell rang and the door opened short of the topmost deck. Outside several uniformed rates stood having a chat, turning in unison to look at us.

"Uh, looking for starboard cabins?" I said. "We seem to have gotten ourselves lost."

One of them, a broad man with heavy sideburns, dark beard and balding head, motioned us to our right with a twist of his thumb. "Starboard's that way, but this is the lift core. I'm afraid you ain't allowed in here."

I shrugged hands in pockets, palming the Broadsider. "Well, now that we know the way we'll oblige."

The burly man looked at his fellows. "I'll escort 'em. I'll see you in a few minutes."

"Ah, you really don't have to."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but Sir, Madame...I insist."

"That isn't what I imagined French sounds like." Elizabeth whispered as the crewman dumped us off in the Starboard Promenade. People both well-heeled and less so were out on deck, many in a state of shock. The morning sun was higher now and the mist that had veiled the Aerodrome had cleared. Below us much of Emporia was clear...at least of cloud.

With the wind hard from the west, pillars of smoke cut across the city, coming from buildings ablaze and ruins now only smoldering. Downtown, where fifty story skyscrapers gleamed in the morning sun, two burned, two giant candles billowing with flame and soot. Not far off a gunship put a volley into a line of Southside warehouses, spraying debris and bodies into the void and ocean below.

"Mr. DeWitt...what is happening?! Is this because of me?!"

"No. It's because of Comstock. It's because of your father."

"My... _father_?" She said, stunned.

"Look, maybe I should have told you this before but I kinda thought you...knew. When I said they call you the Lamb, well, it ain't for nothing. You're the 'miracle child.' You're Comstock's _daughter_."

Her eyes flared, the horror of that revelation evident in every line of her face. She'd truly had no clue. "No!" She protested, waving the thought away. "I can't be. I _can't_!"

I shook my head. "He wants you to follow in his footsteps."

"Well, I want a puppy but that doesn't mean I'm gonna get one!"

"Elizabeth, it's not your fault and it doesn't matter. I'm getting you out of here one way or another." She was staring at me with shaken eyes, even more so as she glanced down to her burning city. For a moment I saw her gaze shift toward the Monument, one part of the city no longer aflame. Then the glint next to us caught her eye and her expression changed.

"Mr. DeWitt..." She whispered, staring out the window.

"Booker..." I corrected, but as I spoke I saw her eyes narrow...focusing on the vessel next to us.

"That... _that_ airship is the... _Versailles of the Atlantic_?"

Too late I looked over to see the name " _Versailles de l'Atlantique_ " upon the chin of the vessel, along with the French flag emblazoned across half of its tail. "Uh, well, about that..."

She turned to me, bewildered. "This...isn't the _Versailles of the Atlantic_?! Where are we...where are we go..." Looking to my pocket, she reached for it. I caught her hand but felt a burst of heat, saw light and the passes fell from my pocket. For a moment before the ring collapsed in a pop, I saw a hole. She pushed me back...picked them up...stared at them in wide eyed shock.

"New York City? You...lied...to me." She said before looking up.

"Elizabeth..." I sighed.

"You were _never_ taking me to Paris..." She let her hands fall, eyes recognizing my betrayal.

"Look, there was a man. He offered to wipe away my debt...in exchange for _you_."

She shook her head, backing away. "So you were just going...going to _sell_ me?!"

"No! It wasn't like that." I insisted, but in my gut I knew that was _exactly_ like that. Her eyes had teared and a sudden convulsion turned into a sob. About us now our stir had garnered couples' attention. "Come on, it..." I said, reaching out to draw her hands from her face. "Everything is gonna be okay. Will you just..." Suddenly I felt motion and something hard struck me in the groin. As I went down she tore herself from me, swiping wetness from a furious face.

 _A for effort_ , I groaned as I fell knees first to the floor.

As I lay there on the deck with the guests on the Promenade exchanging hushed whispers, I saw the girl duck back into the passage we'd arrived. The carpet didn't look as clean from this vantage point. Promptly I made it look even less so.

Staggering upright from my vomit I steadied myself upon a wooden handrail, seeing the dizzying heights below. I managed to stumble forward and throw myself through the hatch.

"Elizabeth..." I didn't quite shout, voice coming out a raspy squeak. Gaining speed down the corridor I passed a crewman. Over her shoulder Elizabeth glared at me with wide eyes before darting down a passage. Rounding the corner, I saw her feet ascending a ladder fifty feet away.

I hit rungs seconds after, my balls feeling as though they'd burst. Above me she scampered higher, working her way through the third in a series of many open hatches.

"Elizabeth, stop!" I shouted now with more volume.

"Stay away from me!" She yelled, only to lose her footing. As I heard her yelp my heart stopped, but after a breathtaking moment she continued onward.

"Wait! I just want to talk to you!"

"I said, _stay away_!"

I kept after her, climbing fast as I could. Something glinted above...an undulation in the air. There was a flash and about me balloons were falling, bouncing off my face, accompanied by the sound of party favors. I shirked and covered my head, but as quickly as they'd burst around me they were gone. "Elizabeth!" I bellowed again. "Just hold up for a minute. I'm not angry with you!"

"Well, _I'm_ angry with you!" She shouted back. "Get away and _stay_ away!" Despite her parlor trick I was gaining, but as I climbed I began to see another distortion and braced for her wrath. The tear burst and suddenly crewmen were scurrying down the ladder. We collided. With my hand gripping the side rail I dangled off the side. Below me one grasped onto the rungs, while the other caught onto him screaming obscenities. I looked down at the forty foot drop to the metal decking. "God Dammit!" I screamed, wrestling with the rungs and harangue of the men below. The world flashed and they were gone. Above me I saw Elizabeth attempting a closed hatch.

"I am _not_ going with you!" She cried, banging against hard metal that wouldn't turn.

She was trapped. I increased my climb until I again detected that weird glow. My eyes widened. "Elizabeth!" I roared. "Don't go in there!"

Glaring at me in defiance, she ripped the hole open. "I've no need for one such as you!" Squinting upward against the crackling glow of the ring I saw crewmen, gazing downward through an impossibly open hatch.

One looked downward. "Merde, elle est là!"

At least one was a crewman. The other wasn't. "That's her!" I heard a gruff baritone say, emanating from what I now realized to be a Columbian trooper rifle in hand. . "Get her!"

" _NO! NO! NO!_ " I wailed, climbing fast as I think I'd ever done. Both men looked to me in shock.

"No! Let...me...go!" Elizabeth shrieked, twisting in their arms. She struck at the gunman, jamming her knee into his thigh. He winced in pain and anger flashed. With the butt of his rifle he smashed her in the temple.

" _NO!_ " I howled, but the deed was done. She fell rag doll into the other's arms and the tear collapsed. As I came to the closed hatch, I knew what I'd find even before I spun it...an empty deck and machinery completely out of sorts with what I'd seen. Climbing through, I found myself proven right. Closing the hatch I sank to my knees, left with nothing but aching nuts and scent of burnt air.


	12. Chapter 12 Vox

**12\. Vox**

Covering within the alcoves of machinery I made my way forward, laying low as the occasional crewman passed me by. Stymied by a cluster of hands discussing the latest delay, I took an access ladder down, alighting upon a suspended catwalk.

The space was wider here and brighter, adorned by incandescent bulbs hung every twenty feet alongside a cylindrical, ten foot diameter truss of gunmetal steel. Into its length every two hundred feet thick girders converged like slices of pie originating from all about the ship.

Within this long trunk which seemed to run the entirety of the vessel, I could see smaller cylinders stacked end to end within regular niches, each perhaps a foot in length and quarter that in breadth. Within each was set a crystal window, inside of which burned an undulating glow. On a larger scale, I'd seen this glow most recently. Stenciled on the side of one I spied a code, " _LLC - 8088326. Two man carry. 200LB lift_." About the tube I happened upon signs warning of _"High Voltage"_ and every so often detected the whiff of electricity.

Lift cells.

"You! Who are you and what are you doing here!" I heard from down the catwalk, glancing up to see two burly mates alighting on the grating from ladders above.

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry but I'm lost. You wouldn't be able to show me the way out, would you?"

"Do you think that's him?" The shorter whispered. As they drew closer I discerned the taller with dark mustache and hair.

"Look to his hand." The stout replied with a nod of his cap.

I held up my bandaged appendages. "Look, I ain't got no quarrel with you men."

"Yeah, but if what I thinks under that bandage, fella, we sure as hell have a quarrel with you. Let's take a look."

I bolted, throwing open a hatch and riding the side rails down. I looked upward to see the men giving chase, shouting after me and raising the alarm. Alighting in the corridor Elizabeth had fled within I hastened to port, knocking a porter aside in my eagerness to escape. Suddenly I was on the outer Promenade. With people looking I calmed myself, searching in vain hope that I'd been wrong...that I'd see her in men's arms taking her off the ship.

The searchers had passed our stateroom by. Glancing behind me I could see them tearing apart a room some two hundred feet aft. Behind me I heard a ruckus of men and slipped into the crowd, working my way forward until I hit the bow gangway. Careful to keep my eyes straight and hands in pockets, I disembarked.

Making my way through the masses I discerned fresh smoke rising about the city and an aerodrome besieged by panicky citizens. Whenever the Constabulary would wander by, I'd look away. Eventually I found a pair of gloves in a man's pocket and lifted them, figuring that I needed them more than he did.

Despite my supposed escape I remained beside myself, such that after fruitless minutes of search I began asking random folk if they'd seen her. "Brown haired, blue eyed...blue skirt?" I kept asking. Most looked at me as if I were mad. Eventually one woman graced me with a response. "Well, with the uprising, everyone's looking for their kin."

"Uprising?" I finally asked, realizing finally that what was burning Columbia was not me. "Who?"

"The anarchists. The Vox. They seem to have taken the destruction of the Lamb's tower as a sign from God. Or Marx. Or whomever they pray to. They've taken hostages in half of the buildings in the South." She looked to her husband. "Edward heard they're executing every white person they could find! We're trying to get to New York and family."

 _Vox Populi_ , I remembered Claire saying. _Daisy Fitzroy_. Beside this woman a fellow refugee raised her voice. The husband was having none of it. "Fitzroy could _never_ launch such a brazen assault! Her folk are just a bunch of unarmed riff raff, led by a colored murderess! I tell you there's a man's mind behind this, and if you ask me it's Eisner. I even heard a militiaman say the Bolsheviks have sent airships!"

With the woman distracted by his outburst I slipped away, desperate to locate Elizabeth. Why hadn't she just let me speak? Glancing outward into the streaming clouds I thought about what had happened, wondering in my self-recrimination what a 'Bolshevik airship' might look like. As I sighed, two decks below on a smaller mating arm I saw Columbian Militia boarding a heavily gunned zeppelin, one stout trooper with a brown haired girl unconscious in his arms. On the lift bags' side was painted a fearsome war hawk swooping on its prey. Now I recognized it...the very same one that had cannoned us on the Monument Tower. Its name was emblazoned below:

 _Songbird_.

"Hey, Mister. You need a shine bad and I needs da money." A black shoeshine boy called out.

"I need a lot more than a shine." I said as I made for a stairwell, craning out a window as I generated my plan of attack. "But thanks, anyway." A steam horn sounded. _Songbird_ was casting off.

In a panic I flew down the first flight of stairs, old bones screaming at my folly. Taking the next with less bravado, I got to the base and burst through the double doors. The remaining Columbians turned to see what the commotion was. Ten feet had opened between the deck and open deck gate. Ten feet to oblivion.

Bellowing to high heaven and through a gauntlet of astonished faces I flung myself across the gap, hurtling at the wide eyed trooper retracting the pierced metal gangway. We collided with a meaty thud, his body cushioning my landing as his skull cracked the decking. The kid next to him couldn't have been more than twenty. He thought about bringing his repeater up and I shot him in the leg. When he shrieked from the deck and tried anew I put one between his eyes. Bullets stung the air and I dove behind the gangplank man's motionless hulk. Rolling to my feet, I got off a shot and leapt away, dashing about the curve of the zepp's understructure with bullets following. About the corner I ran smack dab into another soldier, older than the first with big bushy sideburns and a cigar in his mouth. I jammed it down his throat with my fist. He staggered a step aft and growled. With a mallet like riposte he drove hard into my kidney. I winced and gaped...fell backward. He wasn't wasting time with fisticuffs now...he was going for his gun.

My shot pierced his shoulder and neck, and as he went down the man's repeater clattered to the teak. I lunged for it...unloaded into the next two crewmen as they leapt from the forecastle. _Brap brap brap brap!_ Bursts of red and fabric billowed. Both stumbled forward, crashing face first into the ventilation funnel.

"It's him!" I heard from the rim of the Aerodrome, now a hundred feet away. Along its balustrade Constabulary and a handful of Militia were taking up positions. Shots rang out. From out of the flight deck a lone figure appeared, the pilot, Broadsider in hand. I yanked my rifle up, the barrel hot and popping.

"Not another goddamned inch."

As the vessel continued to open range downwind the man held his hands up, gun vertical. A flash of eyes aside gave the ruse away. Only too late did I realize I'd taken station before an open hatch. Something slammed into my side, smashed the repeater to the railing. The 'something' proceeded to jam his forearm into my throat.

My eyes opened to see the burly bald who'd manhandled Elizabeth, glaring down upon me as if I was the spawn of Satan himself. Maybe I was. Unable to breath, I dropped the repeater and futilely fumbled for the .38 inside my vest. Feeling my attempt, he bashed my head back against the railing.

"Get out of the way and let me shoot him!" I heard the pilot exclaim. The brute was having none of it. Forty years of hatred fueled blow after blow until his fists left me bleeding from my mouth and face first upon the wood. Fingers gripped my hair...pulled my head up and back to smash my face into the teak below. I wasn't ready to die...at least not yet.

When my grandfather had finished telling us stories about Good Boy and his brother Long Tooth on the 'stead, my brothers and I would often argue about who was the bravest and most cunning. Sometimes the aftermath of his stories involved some good natured wrestling...sometimes a fight. Daniel liked to fight dirty, and I would often find myself in this very same position, being his younger by two years. Not partial to eating dirt, I developed an unorthodox but effective remedy to the situation. Funny how life is like that...pain that instructs later.

With a twist I wrenched myself upon side, feeling my hair about to tear out in his grip. With the man's legs open, I thrust my hand into his crotch and popped his balls. His eyes bugged out and he fell face first onto me. Before he could throw up I rolled away, kicked him hard in the head with my boot. As he reeled from the blow I turned to see the pilot, pistol cupped in both hands. He fired again but I rolled away, splinters flying from the deck where the round hit. I came up with the repeater and unloaded into his chest.

For a moment he stood there, eyes wobbling, gazing down as he slumped to the deck. The bald man was puking, pawing for something in his jacket...a gun perhaps. With a single shot I relieved him of his misery.

I could see now that the _Songbird_ was angling downward at a precipitous cant. Pulling myself up by the railing, I headed for the cabin he'd spirited Elizabeth to. Much to my relief I found her there, laid out half-conscious upon a bench. Her eyes cracked at my approach but seemed incapable of focus. Feeling the deck angle pitching, I threw myself forward into the control cab.

I've ridden horses my whole life, even driven a steam locomotive, but never had I been presented with such a panoply of controls as operated an airship. About me were levers of all manner, gauges and compass and at its center a brass of the vessel's cross section. Set against a black sphere, the symbol for the airship was precipitously below the silver line. I realized that in killing the pilot I'd made a profound mistake.

The gunfire outside had petered off but Emporia's towers were approaching. Already we were below the highest of them. Firemen watched from their water spouting zeppelins as _Songbird_ cut through their number.

Before me the most obvious control was a polished mahogany wheel, much like that of a steamship with eight horns about its circumference. Thinking that at least I could control the location of our crash, I spun it right and found that not only it turned, but pulled back. Drawing away in fear of the fiery pillars ahead, I felt _Songbird_ pitch and saw our nose rise. Realizing that I might just learn to fly the beast, I brought the wheel back center and level.

"Elizabeth, I've got us an airship!" I said, dashing back to her body supine on the couch.

"Stay away from me..." She mumbled. I hefted her in my arms.

"Can you walk?" I asked, loping back toward the control cabin. At my voice a sliver of blue appeared. Back in the cupola I set the girl in a chair to the rear of the cabin. Searching my vest, I pulled her photograph and searched the rest of Laslowe's paraphernalia, settling upon the coordinates for New York.

With a sigh I closed my eyes. "What are the coordinates for Paris?" I asked aloud. I don't know why I thought she'd know something like that but I figured if anyone did it would be the girl who'd made the place her life's project. She didn't answer. Figuring East was good enough, I spun the wheel until the nose began to heel, settling out with the big fat "E" under the steering compass' lubber line. On course, we headed for cloud and began to leave the city behind.

Shortly we ploughed into wispy vapor. Unable to see, the confidence I'd had in my newfound airmanship evaporated. I had no idea where we were, but from in front of us I thought I heard noise. Cocking my ear, I knew I wasn't imagining things. The sound was that of gunshots...and a fog horn. Ahead and above shapes began to resolve, along with a brilliant blue beacon that turned and flashed in my face.

With no time to react I pulled hard upon the wheel. Though the nose pulled up slowly, _Songbird's_ midsection didn't. Where shadows had loomed now high gray walls and utilitarian buildings threatened. Below us in the street Columbian troops scattered, hurling their bodies off barricades, through windows, and into fighting positions. All about us small fires burned, sending smoke into the wind. I threw myself over Elizabeth.

Unlike true Zeppelins, _Songbird_ was more _ship_ than _air._ Constructed with a frame steel hull and heavy guns, she was obviously lofted by lift cells rather than hot air and built to fight. Fingernails across chalkboard her prow dug into the oncoming avenue, stone and brickwork flying left and right. As _Songbird_ died she rolled. Elizabeth and I were flung forward and onto the cabin's side, hitting the wheel mount before the sound diminished. Holding my head I looked up, found Elizabeth crumpled into my bloody, battered form. Outside I heard commotion and shouts of, _"By the Prophet!"_

About us screams and gunfire erupted. Throwing myself backward against the window frame's metal lowers I saw gunmen issuing from the blocky buildings above, rifles blazing. Outside Constabulary and troopers were falling like flies. Deciding to let whomever was picking off Comstock's folk continue, I caught Elizabeth in my arms and headed aft, cautiously negotiating the caddy corner walls and door of the cupola. Aside from a fire growing about the vessel's rent airscrews, the ship seemed remarkably intact. For her crew I couldn't say the same.

Wherever we'd come to rest the streets were not nearly as charming as what I'd previously seen in Columbia. Instead of brickwork and whitewashed dormers, the buildings here were stolid and built of heavy sandstone. Keeping to the lee of _Songbird's_ damaged tailfin, I stumbled with Elizabeth over my shoulder until I found a building with an unlocked door. Sheltering inside from the debris strewn thoroughfare, I closed the heavy wood against both draft and bullets. Continuing onward, we emerged in an empty alleyway to the sound of distant gunfire. Following its zagging turns, all too soon I found us confronted by a checkpoint, chock to the brim with nervous Columbian militia.

Hours passed, the smoke marred clouds eventually turning pink with the onset of dusk. In the distance I spied the black silhouette of an approaching Columbian gunship... _Songbird's_ sister. Discovering an abandoned pantry and kitchen, I filled a pitcher with water from a faucet and headed back to the alcove. Placing a glass to Elizabeth's mouth, she did not drink. With the gunfire approaching, I dashed it into her face.

She startled, wiped herself with the back of her hand. "Mr...DeWitt? She said after woozy moments. Her eyes widened and she jumped backward. "Get...get away from me!" I lunged at her and threw my hand upon her mouth...which she abruptly bit.

With a grimace and wince of eyes I shook her off, glaring at my twice insulted hand. Impulsively she lurched upright onto her boot toes, forcing herself back against the door. "Elizabeth!" I growled, catching her by the arm before she stumbled upon the brick strewn floor. "God dammit, cut it out! You're gonna get us killed!" Struggling in my arms, she suddenly heard the report of nearby gunfire and froze.

"Where...where are we?" She asked, fear in her voice, desire for flight chastened by the threat. "What...how'd we get here?"

"A rifle butt." I said, drawing her eyelid back to look at her pupil. "To your head. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three...no four?" She said, hand upon temple. I was holding three. "I can't focus and the light...hurts my eyes."

"Give it a few moments...you just came to." I whispered, peering out into the twilight trough half closed blinds. "Night's almost upon us...that should help." Outside I heard boots racing, the clatter of armed men rushing by and anxious voices. I pulled her deeper into shadow.

"You didn't say where..."

"I didn't say because I'm not sure."

"How'd...the last thing I remember was..."

"I don't know, Elizabeth. Wherever the hell you popped yourself off to it looked like an airship, but they were speaking French...at least one of them."

"I...I saw a tear to the _Versailles_." She whispered morosely. "I thought..."

"That they'd _help_ you?" I brushed her hair...looked again upon that nasty lump. " _Every_ ship is being held at the Aerodrome until they find you. Their crews _ain't_ your friends and no one is going to let you go _anywhere_." As she began to understand her ire turned to despair. "So..." I said. "How's New York looking _now_?"


	13. Chapter 13 Old Soldiers

**13\. Old Soldiers**

In the settling darkness Elizabeth turned from me, arms crossed, the stripes cast by the outer lights carrying across her battered form. "You're a _liar_ , Mr. DeWitt...and a thug. Why should I trust you?!"

"Because the way I see it I'm your only hope of reaching Paris." She sneered. "How do you think I...I even ended up _here_ , Elizabeth? I _gambled_. And now I owe money to men you _don't_ want to be in debt to. I came here to pay it back. Me busting you out, what do you think that was, _charity_?"

Keeping arms crossed, she regarded me sternly. "You mentioned a man. Who...who sent you?"

I turned away, the vision of a city burning in the back of my mind. "Someone willing to take my marker...in exchange for you."

"But why?"

"I suspect they were interested in meeting you." I said, looking ahead toward a police cordon. "No doubt for _lock picking_ lessons. Outside the battle raged. "You know, for a woman who cracks codes and shears holes in reality, you seem to have rather one dimensional thinking. It's not like we couldn't have gone there _afterward_."

"You mean Paris, a _fter_ New York?" Despite the venom in them at least her eyes were working. "Or _after_ you'd _auctioned_ me off? Don't get too used to my company, Mr. DeWitt. From now on you are means to an ends, nothing more."

"Do you really think I'd let _anyone_ hurt you?!" I barked. At my outburst she seemed taken aback, and for the first time I wondered if her insult had been the symptom of some other malady. "Look, I'll...I'll get you to Paris...or more than likely die trying. We...have to get moving or they'll find us."

"Who?" Elizabeth whispered, entirely different character come to her voice. With a tow of my elbow she turned me gently to face her.

"The Vox...the Columbian Militia...whoever is shooting this island up. I don't even know where this place _is_." Pressing to my feet, I offered my hand. She took it and I hauled her up, leaving us eye to eye. Briefly she glanced to her fingertips touching mine. I gritted my teeth, having no time for this. "Come on. We need to get moving."

Voice barely a whisper she answered. "Yes, Mr. DeWitt."

#

I exited first, figuring the island we'd landed on...crashed on...would surely have gondola service. Down the street a gunship spit tracers, sending an explosion billowing into the air. There would be no easy escape to the Aerodrome this time. As I wracked my brain for a way out Elizabeth pointed toward the fortress like wall. In either direction it seemed to run as far as the eye could see.

"It's too damned high to climb."

"There's a tear." She answered. After a moment I realized she was asking permission to once more encompass our demise.

"That's awfully convenient. I thought you said that you couldn't create tears?"

"I can't...but there is one there that we..."

"Those tears you threw at me onboard the _Star_ seemed rather convenient too. And well aligned. Are you certain you're not holding back?"

"I..." She answered, questioning herself with furrowed brow. "I haven't been..."

"Haven't been what?" I asked.

"I remember as a child being able to make them." She finally admitted. Only reluctantly did she look at me. "But not since."

"What's through it?" Though barely visible I could see it now, a shimmering undulation in the air.

"Maybe the other side of the wall..."

Concrete popped next to my head, followed by the ear shattering crack of an automatic rifle. Shoving Elizabeth to the ground, I leapt behind a fallen brickwork and spun in a crouch. Fifty feet away a Columbian trooper had emerged into the streetlight, yelling some religious bullshit as he obliterated the stonework. Steadying myself against Elizabeth's shrieks I aimed and pulled the Broadsider's trigger, striking the man square in the chest to a yelp and muffled thud. Behind him another eye-goggled trooper emerged, leveling his weapon. Before I knew it Elizabeth was on her feet, sprinting for the wall. Like a shooter following a skeet the second trooper tracked her, but as the man's bead drew closer the she raised her hands and tore the air asunder in brilliant fire. The trooper shirked, blinded by the apparition.

I'd have shot him but I was too busy shitting myself. Before I could bring my sights back on him a barrage of bullets shredded his chest and face and just about everything else. His carcass tumbled backward over a moraine of debris. Rolling upright, I brought my gun to bear upon a troupe of perhaps ten men, irregular in dress but heavily armed. Peering through Elizabeth's burning hole from the other side, they'd readied their arms but didn't fire. We leered at one another in a Mexican standoff. Slowly I placed the Broadsider upon a chunk of shattered crenulation...raised my hands open palm.

"Who is you?" Their leader said, a giant who seemed as though he'd sprung whole from the black stone of Africa. Mesmerized by the shimmering window in the wall, he and his compatriots held their weapons cautiously upon us.

"I can't hold it much longer!" Elizabeth said, seeming to control the thing with one hand from upon the brick street. Down the avenue I heard more rifle fire.

"We're on your side." I rose, cautious to keep my hands aloft.

"And whuh side is dat?" The leader man said, distrust brimming in his voice both of us and the crackling apparition about him.

Pacing backward toward the dead trooper, I lifted his repeater and scavenged two clips of ammunition. Palms raised but weapon in grasp, I turned to face our apparent saviors. "Whichever side isn't shooting at us." Hearing Elizabeth's grimace, I gestured to the tear. "She ain't gonna be able to hold that much longer. Where the hell are we?" Uncertain even if they were from our reality.

The man's eyes hadn't waivered from the glowing ring. "They call dis da Arsenal."

#

Elizabeth seemed dangerously drained when she let the hole collapse, a hole I later realized had been an open steel gate. In our reality, and the reality on the other side of the wall, the gate simply hadn't existed. Looking to the shaky woman at my side, I whispered. "You okay?"

With an eye toward our new companions she drew closer. "I'll be all right.

"Are we still...is this...still _ours_?" I asked, glancing about the inner grounds. On this other side of the wall we seemed to be inside a fortress, a garrison. Within the compound three story buildings of heavy white masonry rose into the fire lit night air, looming above the yards and foot paths.

"Yes..." She said, slow to respond. Again I wondered if she'd fully recovered from the rifle butt. "I can feel the differences when I make the tear...like a vibration. Different, different realities have different vibrations, ever so subtle but I can feel them."

At that moment I could feel something else...the gaze of awestruck men upon her person. "You mine' tellin' us what da hell dat was?" The big black guy said, eyes and teeth glowing in the reflected light of the yard.

"She...calls it a tear. It's a doorway...a doorway to somewhere else. I'm DeWitt. Booker DeWitt." Elizabeth shied from our new acquaintances.

"What are you doing here?" One of the others asked, speaking the phrase in a distinctly Irish turn. By the way they were looking at Elizabeth, they had half a mind to burn her at the stake.

"We crashed...trying to escape."

"Trying to escape? From where?" The Irishman said.

"From the Aerodrome. Turns out I'm not a very good airship pilot...we wrecked on the other side of the wall." The black man's men remained uneasy, eyes upon her. "I still didn't get your names."

"Our names ain't impotant, friend." The behemoth answered. "If yo' don't notice, we da one dat got da guns. How we know you tellin' da truth?"

"Because I was shootin' at the same guys you were. That puts us on the same side."

"No, it don't." He answered with a heft of his repeater. "Less'n you tells me why and from what and you escapin'."

"We don't have time for this, Cade." Another said, one with an ill look about him. Among the men his eyes had lingered upon Elizabeth the longest and not for her wizardry.

"I'll say what we have time fo', Finch." The one he'd called Cade said. "Runnin'...why?"

"I'm...trying to get her out of the city. If you haven't noticed, it's being burned to the ground."

Cade sized me up. "S'getting whut it got a'comin. You say you crashed? We dun heard an awful racket a bit earlier on' otha side dat der wall. Guess'n that you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Who _are_ you?" Elizabeth blurted, peering about my shoulder.

"Don' matter. You best be on yo way before we get to not bein' so damn friendly."

"You're bleeding." Elizabeth whispered from beside me, still with a wary eye upon the newcomers. I looked down to a bloody sleeve.

"Great." I said as she commenced a makeshift binding. I heard a muttering amongst the men.

"You him, ain't you?" Cade said, eyes upon my already bandaged hand. "The one Daisy dun said would be a'comin'"

I winced as Elizabeth finished tying the linen off, then took the repeater in hand, butt upon hip. "If one more person calls me a goddammed False Shepherd again I'm gonna be right perturbed."

"Well, whatevah you is, Daisy and her friends gonna wanna talk wif you. We all saw what you done wif da towa'...made a big mess of it. Dun thought it was some kinda sign, 'specially since we was a fixin' ta make a big stink anyhow." Though Cade was talking to me, his men were wary of _her_.

"If he's the Shepherd, then she's..."

"The Lamb." The Irishman finished. They looked as though they'd seen an apparition. Which, of course, they had.

Having turned cipher in the presence of these toughs, Elizabeth came out from my lee and stood before me, hands stained red. "I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth, uh...Comstock."

#

From the southern wall we heard more commotion, followed by an explosion which rocked the nearby windows. Elizabeth and Cade's men shirked. Recovering her composure, the girl stepped forward to look at the devastation.

"So, how you reckon he know you comin'?" Cade inquired in hushed voice as we walked the grass about the largest building. Though it was difficult to discern its features in the dim light the central edifice seemed to be a long hall, three stories high, with a great dome at the center. To either side it was joined by "L" shaped wings, the leftmost interior of which we were skulking along. Only dimly did its vertical windows issue light. Before us lay a portico over a pyramid of stairs.

Colin Kearney and Owen Stave, the Irishman and fellow with an eye for Elizabeth, were listening closely, while the remainder of our contingent surveyed the rooftops for threats.

"I mean, we been seein' posters an puppet shows and all manna o' warnin' 'bout dis False Shepherd for near ten year now. Now heah you is. How dat even possible?"

"Don't know." I said, remaining close to the wing we were advancing in the shadow of. "Either they have a prophet on their side..."

"Har har." Elizabeth muttered beside me.

"Or the same people that hired me did the propaganda around here." Glancing with a wary eye toward Stave, I couldn't help but remember Edmonton's words. "Like I told her before, two days ago I never heard of this place. So you're Fitzroy's folk?"

"Who is this _Fitzroy_?" Elizabeth asked innocently. To a man Cade's contingent seemed appalled. "Did...I say something wrong?"

"You really has been locked in a tower." Cade remarked.

"My whole life." Elizabeth answered while looking cautiously ahead.

"And how'd you do that witchery back there at the wall?" Stave queried, gaze lurid beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Witchery? You mean the tear?" Her eyes solicited mine. I shrugged. "It's not that, I assure you. I...I've always been able to use them, wherever I find them."

"Fink brothers magic." Said one of the men whose name I'd not caught. "I hear tell that's where all that fancy music come from."

"Music?" Elizabeth responded, obviously knowing what the man was referring no more than I.

"Made a fortune on it." He continued with a tip of his cap. "Rumor says they made a mint on other things too they saw through them...wha'd ya call'em?"

"Tears."

From above we heard a dull thud and the crack of a rifle. Cade's men dove for cover. Across the rooftops I saw the flash of an explosion...figures in silhouette. "Troopers." Cade said.

"We haven't seen anyone this side of the wall." I observed. "Who the hell are they shootin' at?"

"Col'nl Slate's men, I s'pose. Maybe coverin' da landin'." Summoning Stave to his side, Cade directed the man to take a small continent and reconnoiter the portico. Although Stave was unhappy about the matter, he agreed. Shortly four men were off, hastening along the plinth stones

"Who is this Colonel Slate?" Elizabeth asked. "And what's so important about this place?"

"You really Comstock's daughter?"

"The preponderance of evidence seems to indicate that I am." She said, perusing her fingernails.

"You didn't know?"

"No. Not until Mr. DeWitt apprised me of the fact." She glanced to me. "Imagine my surprise."

"Daisy gonna want to talk to you _too_." Cade said. "But first we gotta save Cornelius' bacon."

The name they'd been bandying about clicked in my head. "Slate...you don't mean _Cornelius_ Slate?"

"Yah." Cade responded. "Old Injun fighter himself."

"My God..." I muttered.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "You...you know him?"

As Cade's retainers hung on my response I found myself in shock. "I think I do. Or did...once. We served together at Fort Riley, back when..." I didn't realize I'd stopped talking. It took Elizabeth's wide eyes to start me again. "Back when I first joined the Army."

"The Army?" Cade questioned. "You mean Comstock's?"

"No. I mean the _United States_ Army. As in the Seventh Cavalry."

" _You_ were in the _Seventh_ Cavalry?!" Elizabeth asked. "You never said anything about that. What was Custer like?"

"By the time I got around to soldiering, _long dead_."

"Well, maybe you migh' be better in a fight den I dun thought." Cade admitted. By then his other men returned, telling of an entrance and nest of Columbian troopers on rooftop.

"Ole Slate must be getting senile ta' get himself penned in like dis."

"Penned in? You never said what's important about this place." I asked, glancing toward rebuffed chastened Elizabeth. "Or precisely why you're here."

"Dis' da Arsenal. Columbian Militia got all sorts o' guns and ammu'nition in dem buildings. Same stuff dey bombed Peking wif. Since Slate been a high muckety in the Militia and had contacts, Daisy aks him ta take da place fo' da Vox. Things went down bad early on, now dem Militia gunships got him pin' all sides."

"He was in the Militia _here_?" I asked.

"Not Militia...Columbian regulars. Hellova loyalist. Only came ova to the Vox aft' Ole Comstock dun claim he commanded da Seventh at Wounded Knee. Oh, yeah...and that he single handed burnt Peking to da ground. Daisy been planning this 'celebration' fo' months now, but when Slate turn she aks him to spearhead da assault here."

"Why?"

"Cause we need guns and bad. I guess'n they thought seein' him standin' up der on some damn horse would make all dem troopers slip Comstock like some ole flea bitten blanket." Again we heard an explosion, followed by a continued exchange of screams and repeating rifle fire. "Don't look like that worked out so well."

Elizabeth had been listening, turning with a jerk toward the detonation over the rooftops. "Mr. Cade, do you have a first name?" She whispered as she watched the fireball rise.

He smiled, eyes and teeth white in the moonlight. "My Momma call me Joshua."

"Joshua." She replied.

"Anyway, they been a lot of folk entirely unhappy wit da turn dis city taken. Me personally, I think Slate been betrayed. All dis supposed to be bloodless but somethin' fall through 'n now Slate need us."

"Nothing's ever bloodless with true believers." I mumbled. "So you're the relief party? Not a lot of you."

"Not a whole lot o' Vox willin' to save Slate's bacon...not afta how he done us."

I remembered Cornelius, thinking he must have been a hell of an antagonist. "You got a way off this rock? Aside from a long drop into the drink, that is?"

"We got a zepp keepin' station just off Finkton, waitin' for some flares. Shoot 'em off an dey come on in."

"But you have to bail Slate out first, right?"

"You know it." Cade replied.

"And if I..." I glanced to Elizabeth. " _We_...help you, would you have two seats on that airship?" Cade grinned evilly and I realized that we _already_ possessed reservations. I thought about making a dash before he could rally his troops, but with the girl in tow and lacking any sort of endgame that got us off the island, I thought better of it. "Okay, Cade...if we're going to do this, what's the plan?"

"Bash down dat door. Shoot everythin' inside 'til it sayz uncle."

"A wiser plan I could not think of. But I do believe we should take out that nest of troops up there first." As I spoke I heard gunfire and shocked cries. Upon the rooftop I'd only but mentioned I saw a figure rise, hand upraised in the moonlight.

Cade hefted his own rifle with a smirk. "Coud'n 'gree wif you mo'."

#

"Hall...of...Heroes." Elizabeth read as we approached the building's front. The sign had once been illuminated by an under light. Now covered by soot and debris, "Heroes" had had the "e" removed and "H" shifted one right, a red "W" crudely painted in its place. "Hall of _Whores_ ," she corrected.

Clearing the approach to the wing's portico, one of Cade's men smirked. "Colonel Slate's sentiment, no doubt."

At the base Cade and his men knelt, covering the man as he raced to the top of the flight. "Barricaded!"

Cade and Kearney exchanged a glance. "Climb to a window."

"I can't! No purchase!" The Kearney shouted back.

"I can help!"

Grasping Elizabeth by the shoulders, I turned her to face me. "Absolutely _not_!"

"Mr. DeWitt, I can help...I need to help! These men, you...you're all risking your life for me and..."

"Elizabeth..." I said, interrupting her protest. "How did you feel when those troopers came gunning for us back there? Did you like that?" By her dire expression I knew the answer. "And if you take a bullet, lying there bleeding out then just where the hell will that leave me? _Us?!_ Keep your goddamned head down!"

"But..." She said, looking as a child to Cade for a dissenting opinion.

The black man shared a look with me. "Miss Comstock...I's 'preciate the sentiment but DeWitt right. Stay put 'til we's sure dey no threat 'round.

"Cade, I can't get to the window...it's too high!" I heard again from above. Rolling my eyes, I took my rifle in hand and trucked up the stairs, kneeling at the stone plinth to give the man a boost.

"Here, try this." I said, offering my back. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned to see a small figure racing upwards. _"Elizabeth!"_ I exclaimed, swinging back to cover the portico's approach. "Dammit, I told you to stay back!" Dubiously she pushed me and Cade's man aside. Above us I saw a rifle barrel jut from above the window sill. My eyes widened.

The gunman opened fire, repeating rifle spraying the backside of the sign below and Cade's men who'd sheltered behind it. Shortly another joined in from the opposite window. The three of us tumbled backward off the portico. As the bullets shattered the topmost steps I threw myself to shield Elizabeth...heard her scream, followed by a blinding burst of light. In the yard I saw men in green uniforms, round helmets atop a beast of olive drab iron, a turret at its apex turning toward us. "Fire!" I heard from the top man. I rolled her across the bushes and off onto the pea gravel. Behind us where the window had been blossomed a terrific explosion.

A salvo of stony shrapnel followed the blast wave, pelting us in the pea gravel. Amid the ringing of my ears I heard sporadic gunfire, followed by Cade barking orders. Masonry and glass shattered amid a crescendo of bullets...followed by silence. Beside us Kearney moaned, having leapt fifteen feet to the ground and likely broken something important.

Pushing myself from the stones, I turned to see Elizabeth clutching at her head. "What the hell was that?" I screamed, my head still ringing like a bell. A trickle of blood dribbling from her ear and nose. "Jesus." I said and picked her up.

"I'm...I'm all right." She responded but was obviously not, her forearm bleeding too where she'd landed. I brushed the stones from where they'd embedded in her flesh.

"I suppose you think that was brilliant?!"

"I...I just wanted to help." She winced, holding her left ear and temple.

Tearing a strip from her skirt in the very same place she'd torn it before, I wrapped it around her bloody wrist. "What the bloody hell was that!?" One of Cade's people cried, nearly as afraid of Elizabeth's unholy conjuring as the men it had slain. Pausing before sallying the stairs, I discovered a gaping maw had been blasted away on the Hall's right flank.

"Some kind of mobile artillery." I supplied. "Gotta be." Of the green metal "artillery" and heavily armed soldiers that had appeared in the yard, I saw nothing. They were gone.

"She's a bloody witch!"

"No, I'm _not_." Elizabeth insisted, brushing herself free of pebbles. "It...I don't know what it was." With my hand I drew her to her feet. "I saw it and...and reached out for it. You said before that we needed a way in without getting us all killed."

Cade's eyes were wide as Kearney's. Inside I heard the dash of feet and shouts. Distracted by the arriving foe, the Vox leader bounded up the stair. "Come on!"

"This way, men!" I heard from inside the ruined wall.

I followed Cade and Kearney, taking cover at the side of the gaping hole. A shot sung by my head and I pulled back, barrel to nose. Beside me Kearney dropped to a crouch and swung inward with a single blast. Inside someone shouted, followed by the hammer of bullets.

Looking to Kearney against the metallic storm I mouthed a count to three, whereupon both us swung into the breach. Three men were standing at the wall beyond, uncovered, inside the wreckage of what might have been a coatroom or office. We opened fire, felling two as a third dove for cover. Leaping inward I threw myself against the far wall as Kearney took the other. Stave came beside me. "One more bugger in there."

"You in there..." I yelled, careful to maintain my cover. "This is your only chance...drop your gun and we'll let you off with your life."

" _Surrender?_ " Stave hissed, turning me to face him. His eyes were poison. "There ain't no _surrender_ here, fella...these are Comstock's jackboots...kill or be killed!"

"You want me to _surrender_?" The man said from his cover. "Half of General Walthorne's army is here, traitor...and you want me to _surrender!?_ "

Cade moved in. "I don' see Walthorne's army nowhere...jus' you friend. We givin' you a chance...don look no gift horse in da mouf."

"I'll die before..."

As he spoke a screaming Stave swung about the broken stonework and blasted the man, tearing his arm clean off.

"You did'n haf ta do dat!" Cade shouted.

Stave brushed his black hair back. "Yes, I did. You heard 'im...he weren't gonna give up on no account." For a moment he and Cade locked eyes, faces strained.

"Reconnoita da hall down to dem pillars. Keep yo' ass quiet." Cade said in a flat but commanding tone.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I spun about and shuttled back down the staircase, repeater at the ready. In the distance I heard explosions and saw the bottoms of the clouds, Aerodrome and other high islands under lit in orange. It could only mean one thing...the fires in Emporia were spreading. Crossing the pea gravel, a tall black man named Randall had his arm under Elizabeth. "Are you all right?"

"She still can't hear from her left side." He answered.

"Let me look." I said, wiping the spindle of blood trickling down her jawline. Her brow was furrowed in pain, eyes worriedly upon mine. "Ringing?"

She nodded. "It stings."

"Might be an eardrum." I said. "Give it a few days...it happens with explosives." Looking warily toward the dark and smoking hole behind me, I continued in a lower tone. "We need to get moving."

#

Despite the damage to its rear approach the Arsenal's windows and approach remained lit. Before us a broad, arched colonnade receded into the distance, offices set off from its length every dozen feet. Occasionally I heard gunfire. We advanced pillar to pillar, Stave nursing his abrasions and Elizabeth her ear and wing. Through the stonework of the walls a droning grew, a low rumbling. Taking to an office I peered from a window. Only the orange lit bottoms of the Aerodrome and smaller islands were visible.

"What are you looking for?" Elizabeth said, realizing how close she'd come beside me.

"The source of that noise. Sounds like an airship."

"I...I'm sorry, Mr. DeWitt."

"Why?" I cast her an offhand glance as I left the chamber for the main hall. "You might have just saved us all."

With a dirty sleeve she wiped wetness from her face. "Did...did you just pay me a compliment?"

"Maybe." I smirked. "Don't do it again."

The colonnade ended in a pair of oversized brass doors that glowed golden in the incandescent light. Pausing before one with Cade on the other, we swung them open to the building's central rotunda.

Before and above us towered the statue of the man we'd seen in poster at Battleship Bay...and nearly everywhere else in Columbia. Dressed in Seventh Cavalry uniform, Comstock was hewn from gray marble thirty feet high. A sabre rose from his hand, while flags of red stripes and Columbia's blue-shielded white star hung at his sides.

As Cade's men swept the circular surround, Elizabeth stepped forward, still cupping her ear. "Our Prophet Father Comstock, Commander of the Seventh Cavalry, Hero of Wounded Knee. Why wasn't that in my history texts?"

Cade's men chuckled. I spat. "That man did _not_ lead the Seventh. Forsyth did. Miles was over him. Hell, I don't even remember this jackass."

"You were there?" Elizabeth said with furrowed brow. "At Wounded Knee?"

"Yeah." I said, in no mood to revisit the matter.

Elizabeth turned to me. "It must have been awful. I can see it in your face."

"I was sixteen." I said distantly. "Full of piss and vinegar." Elizabeth gazed upon me with a vacant look. "It's an expression. It means I was eager to prove myself. Too eager."

"What... _happened_?" She asked, drawing closer as the men continued to clear the chamber.

"I don't want to talk about it. What the hell is this place?"

"Dunno." Cade answered, following his men into a new room illuminated in threatening reds and mauves. "Seem like some history lesson." Along the sides bloodthirsty Indians crept in chieftain headdress, complete with bows and tomahawks, here and there scalping innocent white women. In the light the teepees and fake fires seem almost real.

Elizabeth's eyes were saucers. "Was...was this what it was like?" She asked, lingering on the scalped woman.

"During the Indian Wars...sometimes. Wounded Knee? Hardly."

"Then why _this_ if it's a lie?"

"It's a half truth. Useful for whipping up sentiment amongst the masses...at the expense of a true account."

It was apparent now that this wing of the Arsenal served as a sort of museum, history seen through a funhouse mirror. The next antechamber featured the Boxer Rebellion, the Chinese rebels done up in the same smear as the Sioux.

"These aren't Indians." Elizabeth said.

I stopped to read a placard, describing how in 1901 Columbia had 'rescued the American legation in Peking under siege by the Boxers.' Images about the fighters showed Columbia laying waste to the city from the air, pillars of fire, bombs and rockets aflame...the end of the Qing Dynasty. A host of maps related the subsequent breakup of the once great nation into the jurisdictions of the Eight Powers. It was odd how through all of my years in the P.I. I'd never heard a mention of this, yet...it all seemed oddly familiar. One thing was for certain, however...Columbia was a weapon.

"What is that?" Elizabeth asked with a gesture towards a wall of photographs.

"Columbia." I said, surveying the images of a great walled city and its surrounds aflame. Above it gunships and the islands of the city themselves launched volleys of fire. "Burning a city to the ground."

She stood silently for a moment before turning to read another panel. "Recalled by the United States' Congress. And in response Comstock and the Founders declared independence?"

"Hence yesterday's festivities." Down the passage I heard a sudden outburst of gunfire. In unison our group's heads turned. "Come on." Leaving the exhibits behind, we hastened after our comrades. As we moved back into the utilitarian corridors the exchange became more intense.

"Elizabeth." I stopped her with a grasp of arm as we traversed an open double door. She looked at me. My eyes were set upon hers. "You need to stay back."

"I can't...can't just let you die."

"I'm not going to _die_ as long as you stay out of the way." With my fingertips I touched her ear. "How is this?"

"Better." She said, still cupping it. "But I still hear ringing."

"Better than deaf." I said, secretly relieved. "No more tears. _None_." I finished. "Stay back but stay close."

Ahead the passage converged with four other main wings into a central Atrium, a vault Cade's men had taken cover. Across the wide expanse two wooden double doors were ajar, the barrel of a weapon poking out. At our approach it withdrew. Elizabeth and I took a knee near Cade and Kearney. "What is it?" I asked.

"Not sure." Kearney answered. "They were goin' to town on us a few minutes ago they seemed to pull back. This place is where we thought Slate's hold up was."

"What was he doing here?"

"What else?" Cade answered. "Tryin' ta secure arms and prevent his ole friends from getting' at 'em when we rose up.

"Maybe he got forced to move." I glanced up to the walkways that circumscribed the dome. "If we could get to those catwalks we might be able to open a window to the outside."

Cade followed my gaze. "We took some potshots by fellas up there befo you caught up. Ain no way up der from here't least."

"We'll have to climb." I said, inspecting the walls about us. "Maybe we passed a stairwell back toward the statue."

"Maybe." Cade said.

Elizabeth cleared her throat and the hair stood on the back of my neck. "What is it?" I said.

She seemed restrained. "There...there's a tear."

All of us drew back. "No." I said.

"But Mr. DeWitt, it's a staircase!"

"Does it _explode_?" I asked.

She looked at me with hurt eyes. "I...I don't think so. It's just a different floorplan. We..." She stopped. "You could use it to get to the upper walkways."

To a man we were just a little terrified of the prospect of this woman unleased. "Okay...just the damned stair." I grumbled. "No bombs or guns or..."

"Okay, okay, okay!" She said.

She started to rise and I yanked her back down. "Give her cover, boys." Kearney and Stave nodded and rose toward the double doors. As they stepped forward the doors burst open and a mechanical monstrosity came lurching out, machine gun in hands. Spying Kearny and Stave, it turned and took aim. I'd never seen anything like it.

Kearney, whom I'd noticed was handy with a rifle, shot it between the eyes. Though it wore the skin and face of a man, the assemblage of gears and armature beneath its forehead was anything but. It returned his favor by blasting the man's brains across the walls. The remaining nine of us screamed and opened fire.

Out on the floor Stave had thrown himself behind a planter, a small copse of green steadily being blown to bits by the automaton. Sensing our barrage from its left, the machine turned, showing the shattered face of George Washington. With a rhythmic clunking another of the abominations lumbered through the door.

"Stair!" I shouted to Elizabeth who was cringing beneath me. She looked, quite unable to move. "Stair!" I shouted again. Against her terror she forced herself upward and behind a pillar. As she did I unloaded into the walking statue until light burst from my right. I turned to see a stone spiral staircase leading up to the second story. Seeing my chance I dashed through, leaping through the ring of fire into a sepia netherworld.

It was a weird feeling, going through. At first I felt like a static charge was upon me, and I was going to pop. Images crowded my mind, confusing images and thoughts and memories that were and weren't mine. Elizabeth followed along with two of Cade's troupe. When we reached the second story, twenty feet above the atrium floor, we were all holding our heads. The tear collapsed, followed by the impact of bullets along the catwalk railings.

Face first upon the stone, the four of us slowly regained our wits and looked to one another. "Sounds like maybe two automatics." Randall said. His mate, a man I'd didn't know, was still holding his head.

"What's your name?" I said in hushed voice.

"I'm Getty." He replied twice, shaking his head as a bullet took a part of the stone railing off above us.

Elizabeth offered her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

I looked at her. Randall and Getty looked at her. With her gesture unrequited I peered through the thick railing, seeing the men crouching behind the same across the circumference of the chamber. Below the Washingtons were blowing the building apart, our remaining fighters screeching and wailing as they dashed from one hiding spot after another. "Dammit...a couple of grenades would be good right now."

"Like these?" Elizabeth asked. The three of us turned and Elizabeth was holding three sticks with cylinders upon them. They looked like potato mashers.

"Where'd you get _those_?!" I asked in amazement, taking one in hand.

"I...I found them." The girl said, and I could tell by her eyes that might not quite be true. "The strings at the bottom of the pommel...pull them!" She shouted. "Then throw!" I did and sat there looking at one. "You have above four seconds!" She shouted...after the fact.

I heaved it over the edge. The explosive went off midair, sending our trigger happy opponents to cover and the glass dome of the ceiling down upon us. Georges One and Two brought their arc of fire upward. The fire stopped.

Looking downward, I realized the automatons had run out of ammunition. "Get them!" I heard from across the gulf side opposite us. Two Columbian troopers rose and began firing with automatic weapons, shredding the railing pillars and forcing us back. Below Cade and his men charged, shooting the automata to pieces, bashing their faces in with the butts of their rifles. Cringing beneath the fire, I pulled the strings on another potato masher and whipped it over my shoulder. I heard a shout and it went off, sending a body flying head over heels to the floor twenty feet with a thud. I rose and shot the remaining Columbian in the arm, landing two or three rounds until my weapon clicked dry. Dropping the magazine, I reloaded with my second and advanced around the curve of the upper walkway, weapon trained on the moaning ahead.

As I rounded the curve two men lay dead on the ground, one with his arm nearly severed. Blood pulsed from his wound despite his attempts to staunch the flow. His flanged helmet was askew on his head, his gray coat dark with his impending death. He looked like a kid.

"False Shepherd..." He whispered, fumbling to unholster his pistol with his remaining hand. Behind me Randall and Getty approached, weapons trained. By the time they arrived Elizabeth was in the way, kneeling over the bleeding boy. "Bloody hell. Get out of the way, woman!" Getty exclaimed.

"No!" She said.

"You're the lamb..." He whispered, eyes fixated upon her. Removing the Broadsider from his holster, I put it aside.

"I'm Elizabeth." She said, affixing a make shift strap just below his shoulder and tightening it. He grimaced and tears slipped his cheek. "I want to help you."

"What going on up der!?" I heard from below. Peering from just above the railing, I saw the smashed automata upon the black and white checkerboard below. Kearney's corpse was a wash of blood. From behind the planter Cade looked upward.

"You're clear!" I said. "But be careful. Bound to be more of them!" I turned back to the boy. "Where are the rest of your troops? Where is Slate?"

His pale blue eyes looked at me, fading fast. "False Shepherd, I won't tell you anything." I had half a mind to adjust his attitude but Elizabeth's stern gaze stopped me.

Peering out the second story windows, I could see floodlights in the yard to the East. Moored along the Arsenal's wharves were heavy airships, beneath which I discovered men loading on ordnance and crates. Echoing through the corridors I heard screams and gunfire, followed by an explosion out in the yard. "I think we found Slate." Turning back toward Elizabeth, Randall and Getty, I found the boy motionless, eyes wide and glassy.

"He's dead." Elizabeth whispered. With a brush of her bloodied hand she closed his lids. "We caused this. We did this." Desperately she looked up to me.

"No." I answered. "Comstock and his Founders did, Elizabeth. They made one decision after another that set this city to go up in flames starting with locking you in that tower. We were just the match that lit it. There would have been other matches."

"But we started it."

I took her by the arm and lifted her to me. "The world's been burning a long time, Elizabeth. You wanted out of the frying pan and now you're in the fryer. It won't stop burning when we're gone, either." She wanted to cry...she was a woman and had a right to...yet it seemed she'd already done so much that she had nothing left. Alongside Randall and Getty we made for the doors.

"They're loading zeppelins out there, Joshua." I said, voice echoing from the dome. Cade and his men had dragged Kearney's body off and surrounded the doors.

"Tryin' t'escape?" He bellowed up at me.

"No..." I said. "It looks more like they're preparing for battle."

#

Beyond the doors I could see a chamber surrounded by closed offices, at its end a pair of open double doors. A barricade had been set in the middle, peopled by deceased Columbian gray. The sound of gunfire hit our ears, now much louder. "Get 'em! "Get 'em!" We heard. "Over near the columns!"

Cade's men dashed to positions about the portal while we worked the catwalks above, catwalks that ended in solid wall. Looking at below I cried out. "No way through up here!"

Cade nodded toward the floodlights dancing through the windows. "Den like you said earlier, break dem windows 'n go 'roun?"

Looking outward I saw a shallow pitched rooftop. "Yeah. We'll scout ahead outside and see if there's a way back in."

"Keep dem heads down." He shouted. Looking at Randall, Getty and a weary Elizabeth, I kicked the glass outward. It shattered with a crash and I was quick to pull my leg back, lest it be amputated by the falling shards. As the shatter ceased I stepped outward and reached back for the girl. Beside me the two Vox remained close behind, raising their weapons toward anything that might have come from the rooftops. Though the crash had been loud it had been only one of many such sounds about the Arsenal. Gunfire continued to resound. Below us two hundred feet away I could see what looked like bombs being loaded onto the gunships.

Randall dashed to the windows around the upcoming building, a round one capped by a dome. Off of its circumference two different wings led, both overlooking the wharves. "Armories." Randall said.

"What are they doing?" Elizabeth asked.

"Looks like they're getting ready to deliver some presents. If your folks are going to survive, Randall, we have to stop them. Do you see Slate?" Below in the darkness I saw the flash of repeating rifles...heard screams on the wharves.

"Tin soldiers!" I heard a man in grey cry out before a bullet sent him flying back for cover. "You're all damned tin soldiers!"

"No...but I think I _hear_ him." Randall replied.

I turned to Elizabeth, then Getty. "Go tell Cade what we see. Then meet us...we're going to that overlook there down the right wing and shoot the place up. Tell him he's clear all the way toward the loading docks." Getty nodded and was off.

With his departure we moved out, slinking the rooftops against the orange cast of the city. From our vantage point I could see at least six of Columbia's dozen islands alight to one degree or another, worst of all Emporia. Off the flanks of the three moored military gunships below fire and light danced amongst its buildings, punctuated by fleeing hordes of civilians. Gunfire cracked. Retraining my surveillance to the wharves I saw a party of a dozen engaging a whole _platoon_ ofColubian guardsmen. A fool's errand.

"What the hell's he doing?!" I said.

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth replied.

I pointed to the bald headed man in the dozen's van, shooting down a contingent of bomb loaders even as we spoke. "Them. They're outnumbered at least ten to one but they're attacking. They're gonna _die_."

"Maybe that's what they want." Said Randall. "What would you do if you knew your friends were about to be bombed out of existence!?"

Hefting the repeater for its sights, I saw the man in grey clearly now, fighting like the Dickens himself. Older and balder, he was _indeed_ Cornelius Slate. From his rear some of the Columbians wheeled, flanked by three of the damnable walking machine gun turrets. Taking the third potato masher, I yanked its strings and let fly.

It landed before the first Washington, which, sensing the object in its path, paused...just in time for it to blow the thing to kingdom come and a handful of soldiers advancing along with it. Before the dust had settled I'd snapped upright, unloading controlled bursts into the troops flanking Slate. Randall joined at my side, forcing the remainder behind a wall of crates.

"Get down!" I yelled, falling backward with a hand on Randall's and Elizabeth's clothes. Machine gun fire exploded, ripping the roof's edge to shreds. "Tin soldiers!" I heard, followed by a hideous metallic bang and explosion of springs.

I hastened for a ladder, a ladder that hung not over solid ground but over the docks of Emporia a thousand feet below. I pulled back, reeling.

Elizabeth and Randall crawled to my side. "What's wrong!?" She cried.

"Heights make me nervous." I answered.

"Doesn't seem like a bright idea coming to Columbia then, gambling debt or naught." Elizabeth retorted. Peering over the precarious drop, it was her turn to blanche. "But I...I see your point."

"Jesus." Randall said indignantly and headed down.

I edged back toward the rim, hearing below shouting. From the doors of the Arsenal Cade's men were charging the crate piles, weapons blazing. "I only wish I had a damned sniper rifle." After a moment I looked to Elizabeth as she cringed at the battles stray rounds.

Her eyes met mine. "What do you expect _me_ to do about it!?"

"Well, maybe produce a damned sniper rifle!"

"I told you, I can't just make tears."

"Fine." I said, handing her the Broadsider. "Then use this.

"I can't." She said, shaking her head. I forced the weapon into her palm. She looked upon it as though I'd given her a rattlesnake.

"Just point and shoot!"

"I can't!"

"Do you want to go to Paris!?" I shouted. She closed her eyes and fired into the troopers below. By now Cade's killers were upon them, bashing heads and shooting others point blank. Buoyed by the black man's arrival, Slate had risen. Exchanging sabre for the repeater, he engaged the last mechanical in single combat. I took aim and opened fire.

Amid the Columbian strong point a hundred fifty feet away men were screaming, falling ahead of Randall and his solo flanking charge. Broken, the remainder scrambled for the airships. As I took aim at a second redoubt, the closest airship's mooring lines fell away and she began to cast off. I switched targets and raked the departing ship.

I saw the gas bags burst and the vessel began a slow descent. "How do I get the damned thing to explode!?" I shouted.

Elizabeth turned away from her weapon. "I can't hit!"

I rolled my eyes. "You can't _aim_." I corrected and took it from her before she wasted any more ammunition. "How do I get the airships to explode!?" I bellowed again.

"You can't!" She answered. They're filled with...with helium and the Lutece cells are what do the heavy lifting anyway. All the air envelope does is alter their buoyancy!"

"Why didn't you tell me that before I wasted a magazine!?" I shouted, opening fire on the men trying to cast off the second zepp.

"Because you didn't ask!"

The airship I'd mutilated was still sinking, its horn sounding a plea for help. Inside I saw desperate men at its con before it fell below the wharf line, only its upturned tail planes and the lamp lit Columbian star and shield upon them illuminated in the night.

Taking up a position again at the edge of the rooftops I resumed fire, picking off hostile Columbians one at a time. Randall's assault from below and mine from above had allowed Slate and Cade to move from crate pile to crate pile, until the Columbians near the second airship raised their hands. By now it too had cast off, turrets blazing toward the advancing Vox. Throwing one of the motorized Washingtons on its side, Slate made it spit fire, blowing out the vessel's control gondola in a spray of blood and glass. Keeping the trigger mashed, he demolished the front of its gas envelope. Onboard the militia who'd thought they'd escaping wailed and slowly, like a dead whale, it too began its long descent to Emporia.

"Come on." I said and headed toward the ladder. Elizabeth was hesitant to accompany me.

"I can't...can't do that fall again."

"And I thought _I_ was scared of heights. We _have_ to do this."

"I'll find another way." She said. "There has to be a tear around here somewhere."

"No tears." I said bluntly. I shoved the pistol into her hand anew. "You need to learn to shoot with your eyes open."

"I can't. I can't shoot people."

I pointed towards more barricades below, where the Irishmen and winnowed Vox were finishing off the last of the Columbian survivors. Together we looked outward at the stars and cloud over the city, the lights aglow about and below us. In the distance I could see a Ferris Wheel, the grounds around it ablaze. The winds were unusually calm. "If you don't, we'll never stop the killing. I'll go first."

With a half turn I placed my foot upon the rung and began my descent. With closed eyes I placed foot below foot, Elizabeth following with great reluctance. "I hate this!" She shouted, voice a tremble.

I kept climbing, trying not to think of the consequence of a misplaced step. "You mind me asking a question?"

"Right _now_!?"

"Yeah...right now." She didn't answer, which I took as approval. "When your tower fell apart, how...how did we survive that? I mean we fell a mile, Elizabeth...a damned mile, and only came up with a little drowning. I've figure I missed something."

Above me I heard her boots connecting with metal, foot over foot as she followed. The ladder continued down to the Arsenal's foundations and oblivion, but we'd done our thirty feet.

We were at the wharves.

I stepped onto the stone and caught her off the ladder. She was quaking. "You okay?"

"No." She answered as I put her down.

"How?"

"It was me...there was a tear." She didn't meet my eyes.

"Awfully convenient. Why didn't you leave?"

She glanced upward now at me and I could see emotion playing across her face. Torn. "I...did. After I found out what you were doing I ran as hard and fast..."

"I meant from your tower. Why didn't you just...just open a tear to Paris and go? Hell, do it now!"

"I told you I can't. I don't know why, but I can't."

"But you said you used to."

"When I was a child."

"Then something's changed. It may not exactly be in your conscious mind, but you're creating these things." I tipped her chin upward and brought her eyes to mine. "Did you go through them? When you were a child."

For the longest time she didn't speak. "Sometimes."

"But you didn't stay. Why?"

"I don't know..." She finally said. "Maybe, family."

"A father and mother you've never seen? That lock you in a tower and throw away the keys?"

She looked downward. "It was all I knew. I didn't want...to be alone."

The breeze caught Elizabeth's hair as we stood there, her eyes leaden. I pulled her too me and closed my eyes, feeling her in my arms. "You're not alone anymore." I said. "Come on."

Together we emerged onto the ramp. About us lay dead bodies, piled atop one another. Others lay in bloody sprawl where they'd been shot down. One by one Cade and his men were making more. I walked up to the man and got into his face. "Killing wounded ain't going to win you any praises after this is over!"

Cade turned to me. "Las I knew you weren't da one in charge heah. Seem like you don enough killin' of you own, Shepherd. This be Colonel Slate." He motioned with his head toward a man on the ground, tended to by a uniformed Columbian I didn't recognize. Back to barricade, Slate was coughing up blood.

"By God, its ole' scalp himself." He said. "I'd say you haven't aged a day, but that would be a lie. What are you doing in Columbia, DeWitt?

"I came for her." I said with a toss of head over shoulder. The patch on his left eye was new, pale face weathered and balder. Though his beard was white along the broad curl of his mustache was much the same. I knelt beside him. "Where'd you get it?"

"Somewhere in my right flank...probably a goddamned lung." He answered, looking up as Elizabeth parted the round of men about him. "My God, you're her."

"Yeah, and I'm him. And any of you guys call me the 'False Shepherd' again, I'm gonna finish what the Walthorne's boys started."

He was still looking at Elizabeth. "Playing the hero now, Booker?"

"I never claimed to be no hero."

"Then what are you?" Slate coughed. "Cause the white injun I knew sure weren't that. He cracked a weak laugh from the blood tinged corner of his mouth. "You can't take her."

"You'll be sorry if you think you're stopping me." I looked about to the remaining men and bound Columbian prisoners. "Not you or no one." Some of Slate's survivors came running from the surviving airship with litter in hand. I backed away, but as they loaded him onto the stretcher Slate grabbed me by the forearm...right where I'd taken the bullet. "No, you don't _understand_ , DeWitt. You _can't_ take her."

"He gonna live?" I asked the man tending him, seeing Slate now fading.

"I hope so." He said, voice shaky. "If he's right...he took it in the lung, but the other'n okay." As with the others, his eyes flitted between me and the girl. "That her? The Lamb?"

Randall sidled beside him and took a knee. "Yep. That's her."

"I done thought she was just a myth." I heard one of the men say.

"She ain't no myth." Answered one of Slate's Sergeants, a burly man whose gray coat was spattered in blood. Turning from us, he pointed a flare pistol into the sky and shot of a brilliant red round.

"Please call me Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth Comstock." A voice supplied. Men raised their guns.

"Look, you idiots. She ain't no angel and she ain't no devil...she's on _our_ side. She's been as much under Daddy's boots as everyone else in Columbia. That ends today."

"Then if she ain't no angel, what the hell is she?" Randall supplied. "What the hell magic she doin' we all seen back there?"

For a pregnant moment no one breathed. Finally I spoke. "She's just Elizabeth."


	14. Chapter 14 Good Times in Finkton

**14\. Good Times in Finkton.**

The captured gunship was named _Doberman_ and on its bullet pocked decks we left the Arsenal behind. Like _Songbird_ , _Doberman_ was three hundred feet long, not a _Versailles of the Atlantic_ in any sense but it _did_ have a galley. After a hand washing that couldn't entirely remove the bloodstain, I found bread and sliced beef and manufactured a sandwich. I stood eating it at the railing.

"What are you looking at?" I heard the woman's voice say from behind me.

"The ships I sank. I was wondering what happened to them."

With the city a patchwork of fire and darkness, their fate was impossible to know. She had the same thousand yard stare I did. The girl who'd wanted nothing more than to dance with me just two days before was gone. "Do you ever get used to it?" She asked, looking at her hands. "The killing?"

"Faster than you could imagine." I took a bite. "That doesn't mean you like it."

"Sometimes...sometimes you need to do what you can to survive? Right?" She asked, taking my bad hand. "How is it?"

"Like Swiss cheese." I answered, looking at the slice of the same hanging from my dinner. "I washed the new hole out and threw a new bandage on it and the mitt. That's as good as its gonna get." She loosened the wrapping and began to retighten it, eyes upon mine. "You know, there is killing for survival..." I said with a glance at the men gathered down the rails, "And there's taking pleasure in the act."

"You said you've done this sort of thing before." She finished, the light of burning Emporia playing upon the underside of her face.

"Too many times. I offered her a bite. She deferred. "You seem like a decent enough sort, Elizabeth. That said, the less you know about me, the better."

"But why?"

"Now that you're out of yours, you might realize cages have their advantages. Out here you have to make choices. Not all end well."

She cast me a sidelong glance. "A choice is better than none, Mr. DeWitt, no matter what the outcome."

"You really believe that? What if you woke up one day and didn't like what you chose?" She'd turned to face me but I was in no mood to elaborate. Treating with death and mayhem for two decades, I'd learned those who survived were not nice people.

She deserved better...better than me.

Edmonton had claimed the industrial districts of Columbia were the domain of Jerimiah Fink and his associates, and for all of his deception I had no reason to doubt. In the moonlight just off Emporia its thousand foot edifices towered. Here and there along their civilized flanks I could see fire and the flash of violence. "Finkton" I said, drawing the girl's eyes. "I'm sorry if I was harsh with you back there at the Arsenal, Elizabeth. I was scared."

"You, scared?"

"I was scared for _you_."

She didn't speak for a moment. "That you might lose your marker."

"No. I was afraid I'd lose _you_." Ahead docks were looming. "Excuse me."

I made my way into the gunship's interior and down to the control cab, finding Cade and Stave in conversation, conversation stilled as I entered. "How's Slate?"

"Likely gonna make it." Stave answered. Cade's eyes remained upon me. "Less'n infection set in."

"What about us?" I shouldered my repeating rifle. "Me and Elizabeth?"

Cade registered my subtle threat. "Like I say...Daisy gonna be talkin' wif you. Ain't up to me."

The pilot they had flying wasn't a Columbian, rather a Vox ragtag whose command of the vessel seemed untrustworthy as mine of _Songbird_. Still, as we approached the docks he seemed to know what he was doing. "All reverse." He commanded into a horn by the side of the wheel, ringing the nine inch dial of an engine order telegraph. "I have power." He continued, reaching up to a throttle quadrant. Pulling the levers steadily rearward, the drone outside became a roar. _Doberman_ slowed, approaching the docks at a crawl.

Stave cast a glance my way before departing the cab, while Cade continued to look out. "This place mean something to you?"

"I done work for Flambeau some twelve year. Nevah thought I see dis...Finkton burnin'."

"After the way you'd talked back at the Arsenal, I find that hard to believe."

"Maybe, but I sad it come to dis." He examined his thumbs as the vessel thumped along the quay. "All da killin'...wouldn't make my Mama proud."

"You have family here?" I asked, eyes following Stave's sally down the lowering gangway. Alighting upon the dock, he started shouting at waiting men.

"No. Dey back in Alabam. Long way from heah."

As Cade reminisced I saw two of his toughs hustle Elizabeth down the gangway, grasped either side by her upper arms. Looking back toward _Doberman,_ her bewildered eyes found mine.

"Cade, what are they doing!?"

He looked up. "Not what dey s'posd ta be. Come on."

Together we tore out of the control gondola, leaving Cade's man to handle the controls. Along the side decks Vox were tying the ship off, roping hawsers to tall iron bitts and a dozen cleats fore and aft. I ran the gangway.

"Get off of her!"

On her right Finch turned to me with a scowl, ugly puss questioning what I was going to do about it. He'd had an ill look about him even back at the Arsenal. With the butt of my repeater I popped him square in the face, sending him broke nosed to the brickwork underfoot. Seeing a riot in the making, Cade pulled the other off Elizabeth and imposed his formidable mass. From his sleeve a Billy club dropped. "Back off!" He said, raising the stick. Stave turned to face us, interrupted in his incitement. The crowd that had gathered about the docks began to form a ring. "Da woman an man got an appointmen' wif Daisy. Now who gonna get in my way?" Despite their torches and rifles the mob shrunk back. Upon the ground the bloodied man faltered in his attempt to rise. Having reigned his people in, Cade turned to us. "Time ta meet Daisy."

One of the men stepped forward beside a neutered Stave, glancing at my moaning handiwork. "Cade, Daisy ain't here."

"Well, where is she?" He questioned. "She got some important guests."

"Don't know, Cade, but she said she be back in a few hours."

"My appointment's delayed..." Boomed a woman's voice from the back of the gathering. "At least 'til mornin'. The crowd quieted, and like the Red Sea for Moses the sea of torch wielding toughs parted. As the gathering turned a middle aged black woman approached, clad in a blood spattered white collar shirt, red suspenders and gray breeches. Upon her belt hung a Colt 1851 Navy, the facets of its long barrel glinting in the torchlight.

She stopped before Cade, glanced at me and Elizabeth with brown eyes. "Who dis?" She asked, wiping a grimy sweat from her forehead.

"Ole Comstock's Lamb." Stave said from the fore of the rabble. "And this is the fabled _False Shepherd_ himself."

Fitzroy's eyes cast upon him, more to shut him up than favor. He got the message and she turned back to Cade. "Dat true? Dis da ole man's daughter?"

"Seem so, Daisy."

Fitzroy had clean symmetry, wide eyes and generous lips. Her hair was thrown back in a braided ponytail, held by a red scarf. Were it not for look she was giving us she might have been pretty. "You Fitzroy?" I eventually asked.

"Nothin' but. An you?"

"DeWitt." I said. "Booker DeWitt. Look, I got no quarrel with you or your Vox Populi, I just want to leave here with the girl."

Fitzroy's eyes narrowed, reaching to my hand. When I drew it back she cocked an eyebrow. I let her have it. Eyes downward she pried open the bandage Elizabeth had so recently redone. _"A.D."_ She said, obviously impressed. "So you him...da one ole Father shithead afta. Caused a whole mess o' trouble at the Raffle and down in Battleship Bay. Lots o' dead crackers."

"Look, I ain't lookin' for a fight."

She reviewed her mob, many bloodied, hanging on her every word. "There's _already_ a _fight_ , DeWitt...only question is, which side you on?"

"I ain't on no side."

"If you ain't wif us, you against us." She looked to Elizabeth. "Long time I wanted to see you, Lamb. You daddy caused a hell of a lot of pain here for us'n. How you likin' da payback?"

"I don't." Elizabeth said, shying away from the woman's gaze.

"Yeah..." Daisy sneered. "Dat what I thought you'd say. You ain't had to do nothin' you're whole 'tire life while we squirm in his mud. But dis change things, don't it?" Her brow furrowed. Now we got you, maybe we put you head in a box and send you back home." I imposed myself between Fitzroy's contingent and Elizabeth. From my side Cade looked at me. I looked at him.

"Ain't no one gonna hurt da girl." Cade answered.

Fitzroy smirked at us both. "I ain't gonna hurt no one. But you ain't leavin' here wif her, False Shepherd. She too good for bargainin'."

"Comstock's kept her locked up in that tower since she was born, Fitzroy. She's as much his victim as everyone here is!"

"Uh, huh." She answered, eyes rolling. "Randall say you know Cornelius. Dat true?"

I fingered my Broadsider's trigger. "United States Army, Seventh Cavalry. We served together at Wounded Knee."

"Do tell." Pondering the matter, a twinkle gleamed in her eye. "Then you good in a fight."

"I can handle myself."

"You pulled Slate's ass o' da fire, so I suppose I owe you somethin'. He more trouble than he worth, but his men know guns." She glanced back to the Doberman. "What dey got onboard here?"

"Don't rightly know. But it was something they had a hundred troops working on all night."

"Toby. Bart. I need you ta see what dey was in a hurry to load onto dis boat back at da Arsenal. Check every magazine." Looking back to me and Elizabeth, she smiled. "Joshua, take dis man's guns. Finnian, Nora...you all see our False Shepherd and his lost li'l Lamb upstairs at da Good Time. They gonna be our guest tonight."

#

Across the boulevard from the docks was a theater five stories tall, approached by a twin stair. Centered above its ticketing booths and broad green awning hung the words "The Good Time Club" in gold trimmed black, the words encasing a clock. Between the stairs a bronze statue surveyed the street twenty feet tall, oversize watch in his hands. Unlike the real article this one's face was intact.

Finnian and Nora ushered us along through its central double doors. The man and woman were rough folk, orange haired and like many of the Vox of Irish descent. By their uneven complexions I figured they'd worked too many years in the sun for their heritage. Like the rest of Finkton the club's interior was dark, though in the window-filtered light I could make out tables and a long catwalk at its center. As we walked Finnian revealed the "The Good Time Club" was Jerimiah Fink's showpiece, a 'gentleman's getaway' designed to show off his wealth and lure potential investors to his businesses. In its spare time it served as a reward for his favored and high ranking employees, a place to blow off steam, lose some money and entertain courtesans. They led us to an improbably powered elevator.

As Elizabeth huddled beside me the elevator doors opened to yet another shock. Upon a cart in the lift's lone light lay the mutilated bodies of an Asian man and woman. " _Chen Lin_. Finnian whispered as he crossed himself. Unfriendly as she was, even Nora turned her head away. "This is what they get for helping the common folk. Where'd you find them, Alfie?"

"Down below when we rigged the generator." The brown haired man pushing the cart said, sharing a glance with his three mates. Retrieving his newsy cap from the sprawled corpses, Alife examined it for sopped blood. "Fink's goons have a damned dungeon down there. Lin and his wife ain't the last, either.

"Why them?" I asked. Elizabeth had turned away. "You say _Fink_ did this?"

Finnian nodded, looking again at the bodies. "His goons. Chen Lin and his wife, they made guns for us. Not enough, but they tried." Alfie pushed and along with two Vox extricated the cart from the elevator. Avoiding the pooled blood on the floor, we headed up.

As we rose Elizabeth looked at me, and I could tell she'd seen too much. I noticed that both Nora and Finnian didn't seem too ruffled. Both had handguns. So had the _rest_ of the Vox, along with rifles. Columbia, for all of its well organized militia and Constabulary, seemed to have capsized at their uprising like a top-laden boat. If not this dead weapon smith, _who_ then was backing them?

The bell clanged and elevator doors opened. Finnian and Nora escorted us to our room, which though spacious was, like everything other than the lift, suffering from a power outage. Nora shut the door, warned us that they'd be nearby and 'not to try anything.' Not wishing a fight yet I smirked and began planning how I was going to kill them both.

Despite the lack of illumination there was plenty of light from outside. Above us the Aerodrome remained aglow though only two airships hung at berth. From Finkton about us and Shantytown down the quay buildings flickered. Below on Emporia's south side hellish flames rose. I wondered if Morgan and his wife had made it out alive.

I don't know how late it was but it had to be past midnight. We needed to sleep, but with Fitzroy's dogs outside and Finkton smoldering neither of us found slumber east to find. Beside me Elizabeth had shed clothes down to her chemise, washing her face in a basin hair untied.

"I'd have thought you'd be asleep by now." At my words she picked up a brush and began to tease the knots out.

"How could I?"

"Your ear?"

"It's still ringing, but that's not it. I'm worried."

"I'm not surprised, but I wouldn't be, not with what you can do."

Her eyes met mine, and I realized she wasn't as impressed with her own talents as I. "They've a lot of guns. And angry people. And I guess, I'm...I'm Comstock's daughter so they blame me. Nothing like burning a witch at the stake to placate the masses."

"Do you mind me asking how do you do that, whatever it is?"

"Tears? Honestly, I'm not certain." Behind her Emporia shimmered silently. "But, you know how I said I always had plenty of time to read? Well, I tried to figure it out once. I read literature on physics and other such things."

"Yeah, and what did _that_ teach ya?"

"That...that there's is a world of difference between what we see..." She waved her hand to room and skyline. "And what is."

She seemed to register my gaze and grew quiet. Trying to shake what I was feeling, I walked into the washroom only to find the tap dead. I took my turn at the basin, washing my face and hands. She was sitting on the couch when I returned, the place I'd been. Off to the side the bed was turned down, remarkably clean considering the circumstances. I sat beside her.

"Just before I, er, met you, Elizabeth, I found some notes in a book. Rosalind Lutece? Does that ring a bell?"

"She was the scientist who looked over me. At least until a few years ago."

Well, in those notes she was pondering what made you so different. She figured it had something to do with part of you remaining from where you'd come, and that the universe didn't like having its 'peas mixed with its porridge.'"

"What does _that_ mean?"

"I was hoping you'd enlighten me."

"You didn't seem so keen on my nature before. Why are you so interested now?"

"When I first arrived here, I kind of staggered in the Aerodrome. I saw something there...a vision I've been trying to wrap my arms about ever since."

"A vision?" She puzzled.

"I saw a city on fire. The city I came from. New York. It seemed so...so real. Like one of your t..."

"New York...where you wanted to take me?"

I sighed, wishing the matter buried. "Never mind. It was just...just nothing."

Elizabeth shrugged, placing her hand upon mine, studying our fingers as they joined. "I'm sorry. I didn't...didn't mean to stop you." In the faint light I could see the tensing of her brow. "Would...would you mind holding me? I think it might help me sleep."

" _Hold_ you?" I swallowed, feeling her nails on the side of my palm.

"Hold me." After a long moment I slipped my arm about her shoulder and neck, my other beneath her nightdress...rose and carried her to the bed. She was still looking into my eyes as I set her down. I turned away, bending over the bed's edge to loosen my boots. Jacket and vest landed upon the empty nightstand, followed by my shirt. "Here." I said, fluffing a pillow. Placing it beneath her, I eased her back on the bed. She brushed her hair aside as I lay down behind her. Realizing the windows were out and the temperature still dropping, I pulled the blankets over us.

"What they... _he_...did to those poor people..." She whispered. "I thought I was going to faint." Over her shoulder her eyes turned to me. "You didn't seem much fazed."

"I wish I had been, Elizabeth, but I used to work for people like Fink."

"Really?"

"Yeah..." Cries echoed from outside, causing us both to look. "They used to call us in when the workers got restless."

"To do...what?"

To demonstrate the folly of men striking...throwing down tools."

She cocked her head. "You hurt people."

" _Hurt_ would be an understatement. I'll tell you this...sometime there is precious need for folks like Fitzroy."

"Why?"

"Cause of folks like me."

"Booker..." Again her fingertips touched my hand.

"Yeah..."

With a sigh she rolled fully...tucked her head into my chest and shoulder. I felt her breath sweet and warm upon my skin. "If...if this doesn't work...thank you for trying."


	15. Chapter 15 True Colors

**15\. True Colors**

Morning came too early. Roused by the sun I found Elizabeth in my arms, eyes closed, face covered by brown. Taking care not to wake her, I slipped from her side and stepped to the windows.

In the morning twilight two Vox airships hovered over the Fink-Lutece Liftworks. Not far out through a bank of clouds a larger, more ominous shape drifted, red star upon its mighty tail. Along the aerial jetty below I saw a hundred foot sloop moored, and from quayside came a shouting of orders. Through the jeering mob blindfolded men, uniformed and not, were led. Placed against a ruddy brick wall at the base of the Fink factory entrance, their line was dressed. A line of ragtags with weapons had assembled before them. After a short count shots rang out. Elizabeth jolted upright. The surprising thing was how little it affected me. I'd seen far worse... _done_ far worse.

"What was that!?" She cried out, frantic. "What was that?!"

"Firing squad." I said, looking down the sixty feet to the ground below. "Looks like Daisy's folk have started their purge." She rose from the bed and crossed the rug meet me at the window, silk clinging to her body, feet bare upon the carpet. "The Vox have laid siege to Fink's Factories. They're massacring captured soldiers and supporters of the Founders wholesale. And they have allies."

"I thought I was having a nightmare." She said, looking downward, knuckles at her mouth.

"You are."

"How...how can we stop it?" She whispered, and I wondered if she'd yet realized the people dying in the streets were _hers_.

"We can't. Maybe we shouldn't." I turned her to face me. "You should stop looking. I told you there are some things you can't unsee." From above a gunship pierced the clouds, on patrol about the island. On its tailfin it too bore a red star. Below I could see gray uniformed men in the shadows, uniforms I recognized as Bavarian Soviet. Pulling Elizabeth away from the window, I listened as their leader bequeathed Fitzroy and her Committee for Social Justice a bound Jeremiah Fink and his family. That leader was familiar.

Edmonton.

"There are no terms, my Lady." My erstwhile friend asserted. At his pause I could hear the wind whipping outside...could see his red scarf atop a black rain coat. The crimson banners his and Daisy's men carried all a flutter. "Consider this a gift. But remember, without our troops you would still be skulking in the shadows, dreaming of your revolution. Without Bavarian guns, your eyes would now be at the wrong end of a Broadsider's barrel. You should thank your lucky stars that we have a common interest in this city."

Though I couldn't hear her words clearly Fitzroy seemed to churn, eyes casting about to the fifty odd Communists with automatic rifles. "You hold Finkton and the Arsenal. Soon you'll have Emporia. Comstock is finished. And now, with the exception of one minor detail, our business is concluded."

"An' what be that 'minor detail'?"

"None of your concern." Edmonton said as he turned with his men, departing for the moored warship. "Now that I have the lift cell production machinery, that matter is between me and your Prophet." Half way to the barge he stopped. Walking back slowly, he produced a handbill. "Unless, that is, you've seen _this_ man."

Fitzroy looked at the sheaf with my image upon it, causing the men about her to grumble and stir. "False Shepard, eh?" She mumbled. "I heard he in town."

Edmonton smiled. "Yes. The very fulfillment of prophecy, is he not? Another niggling detail I should have to ask the Old Man about." After a hesitation he continued. "Fitzroy, your people seem to have some reach. If you _do_ happen to run across him, I'll pay good money for his person. More guns, if you'd like, or other sundries. There are many things a newborn nation wants for."

Fitzroy's eyes chastened her muttering men. "Why him? What he done to you?"

Edmonton shook his head. "If you must know, he happens to have something I _desire_." Daisy looked at him and his goons, four score bristling with weapons. "A girl." He amplified. "And a rather special one at that. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Ever so pretty. I will make it worth your effort."

"You talkin' 'bout Comstock's Lamb." Fitzroy handed the bill back to him. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Marvelous." Edmonton replied, nodding back toward the dark shape hovering over the Fink-Lutece Liftworks. "I believe you know where to find us." Without further word he turned and strode off, his platoon joining in quickstep behind him.

"That I do." She answered, staring at Edmonton's ilk as they crossed the jetty toward their waiting vessel.

"Who...who are those people?!" Elizabeth asked, drawing her skirt and boots on.

"Bolsheviks."

"Bolsheviks, as in _German_?"

I made for the bed and pulled my shirt on...grabbed my vest. She was still wearing the choker and pendant. I took my neckerchief and tied it, just in time for a knock upon the door. I handed the woman her blouse. "Things might get bad, Elizabeth. We need to be ready for anything."

#

Finnian was waiting when I opened the door, ushering us to the lift and back downstairs. As we descended I threw my jacket over my shoulder, eyes meeting Elizabeth's. Why hadn't Fitzroy cashed us in? By the time we arrived in the Good Time's lobby her rabble had taken over. I heard a deafening crash outside and Elizabeth and I turned to look, seeing the enormous bronze of Fink that had presided over the club's approach toppled to the lawn. Finnian brushed against me and nodded me inside.

The main hall was filled to capacity, the majority bawdy men with an eye for my girl. As a pair we were hustled through the raucous crowd, what had been Fink's pride now filled to capacity with his enemies and every sort of low life. Off every deck and stair they hung, leering and shouting. Drink and smoke flowed freely, the scent of vomit and cigar wafting visibly in sunbeams from the skylights above. With watering eyes Elizabeth was turning a shade of green. My friends at McSorley's would have been proud. Ushered to the front of the stage and waiting seats, we were sat with thin courtesy. I set the jacket upon the floor beside us.

"What is this?" Elizabeth coughed, eyes darting anxiously at the hundreds polluting the chamber.

"Don't know." I answered with a sidewise glance. "But it's either some sort of mob strategy session..." Noticing a well-dressed but haggard woman and her son under guard on the balcony, I continued. "Or a kangaroo court."

"Why would they want to punish innocent animals?"

I sighed.

The stage...catwalk...before us was long like a bowling lane and raised four feet, its circular end stage in the middle of the chamber. Along the far wall drapes of blue hung twenty feet from the ceiling. Amid rising acrimony Fitzroy's lieutenants parted them, dragging a black haired man with a handlebar mustache forth by his arms, knees upon the ground. Cheers erupted as they approached, the men dumping him on the stage's floorboards. Of course, I recognized him...the wicked knot on his face and nose made him unforgettable. More bruises had been added.

The roar didn't subside until Daisy, Cade and an Irishman I didn't know hopped from the stairs to the catwalk. "Comstock is the god of the white man, the rich man...the _pitiless_ man." She said loudly as she marched forward. "Today dat end! _He_ end today!" She held her gun up, long barrel pointed at the ceiling. At my sides two heavy hitters pressed themselves and Elizabeth looked up. "Now, you all know dis fine gentleman, heah, right?"

Jeering.

"Well, if you'ins don', this be Mistah Jerimiah Fink." At her nod a nearby thug produced a chair. She knelt and brought her weapon to Fink's face, prodded it into a disjointed nostril.

"Please!" He pleaded stuffily, eyes glistening with fear. "I can make you all wealthy. I have a lot of money and if you'll just..." More jeering arose, drowning out his pathetic groveling.

"We done had 'nough o' your money, murderer. Had 'nough o' your killin' too. Was it you dat had poor Chen Lin an 'is wife throats slashed? Hmmmm?" Again with the barrel she turned his sweaty, grimy, battered face. Accidentally his eyes came to rest on mine. "Answer me."

"No." He sobbed, recognition dawning. "I had _nothing_ to do with that! Nothing. My Chief of Security...Sansmark...he was in charge of _all_ of those decisions."

"Uh, huh. An what 'bout that Lutece woman?" She continued, the tip of her barrel in his nose dragging his eyes back to hers. "He do her too?"

"How'd you..."

She reveled in his astonishment. "I know 'lot o' tings, Mistah Fink. Chiefly righ' now like how you gonna _die_."

On the balcony a woman cried out, hands upon her face and in tears. She'd been shielding a boy who also was crying, "Daddy, Daddy! Let my Daddy go!" The crowd had quieted at the child's disruption. Fitzroy turned back to Fink.

"What...what do you want?" Fink asked, shaking. My nose turned at a foul scent...he'd soiled himself.

"We wan' your storehouses, Fink." She said. "We got your factories. We got da Liftworks. Now we want da guns."

"Why...you...you seem to have plenty of...guns." He said, eyes fixated upon her barrel.

"Not dese peashooters, fool...we want dem automatics. Dem walkin' turrets...heavy weapons we can take Emporia wif! We barely hangin' on der and we need mo' firepowah _now_!"

"I can't..." He answered. "Comstock would kill me."

" _I_ gonna kill you." Daisy retorted with the cock of her weapon, lips perilously close to Fink's ear.

From one of the Good Time's side entrances I saw men wheeling in a gray figure, balding and with an eyepatch over one angry eye. "Is this your justice, Daisy?!" He shouted. she uncocked her pistol. The chamber had fallen silent as the unwashed and bloodthirsty faces turned to look at the newcomer. From his wheelchair he tipped his chin, challenging the entire gathering.

"Go back to your damned bourgeois Army, Injun killer!" I heard rise from the back of the mob, accompanied by pockets of jeering. Although Slate was in a chair at his sides several heavily armed Founder shock troops stood guard. Like me, the men in gray wielded automatics...not peashooters.

"Aye..." Slate muttered, voice weak but determined. "Guilty as charged _many_ times over...for a cause I _believed_ in until I was shown by God its utter bankruptcy! And I tell all assembled here, that if you continue in this vain, one neither _I_ nor _my men_ subscribe to, you shall not retain our advisement and shall perish to a man when Comstock strikes back!"

Daisy and her lieutenants had remained patient as he spoke. Men peered over balcony railings to see him below. "Cornelius, we got better friends than you now...go home."

"I shall not, Miss Fitzroy. McKinnon. Downs." He said looking in turn to the three Vox leaders upon the stage. "Kill that man in cold blood and you will _damn_ the justice of your cause!"

"Maybe we jus' kill _you_ den." Daisy said, thumbing her big revolver. "Dozens o' my people die pullin' you ass out o' da fire yestaday and now you come a whislin' for you former masta? Or is it for da color o' his skin? You ain't worth it, Slate."

"My _men_ destroyed the Founder's ability to bomb us by _three_ gunships...a full half of his fleet...how many uncounted lives did _that_ save?" Slate rasped. "We have our differences, but if you think this war is over, you are wrong by a long shot. Comstock's believers are strong, and when word of this uprising reaches his parishioners across the North America, you can be certain retribution will be not far behind!"

"You tink anyone give a rat's ass 'bout what happen here in Columbia?" She said, eyes aflame. "It been ova a decade since evry'one in Comstock's inner circle killin' us dead, an no one outside here lift a finger. Dey care 'bout one ting an one ting only...whoever control dem liftcels. Dat make da rules."

"No, Daisy...you're wrong. People care, but if you act as a savage they shall be sure to treat you as one. Stop the carnage now. Reach out to Washington and appeal to them for help. Roosevelt is itching to intervene, and given the excu..."

"He ain't no better den Comstock, you ole fool. I rememba' where I came from. If we want 'quality, we gotta cut it outta here ou'self." Following her invective the silence was deafening. The two exchanged withering stares. Suddenly the room darkened. After a moment the lights came back on, accompanied seconds later by a distant shudder and boom. Slate nodded. "What is to be, Daisy? Justice or blood? Which do you want more?"

"Blood." She said, raising the pistol as cheers rose from the mob at her words. Eye for an eye...toof for a toof...life for a life...like da life dis heah son of a bitch took from me an so many othas. I wan' blood!" Placing the gun into Fink's nose, she tipped his head back again.

"Don't watch." I said and turned Elizabeth's gaze away.

She threw me off and stood instead. "No!"

At her sides the meat thrust her back into her wooden chair. "Shut up, li'l Lamb." Fitzroy said with a snide glance over shoulder. "Now, Mistah Bigshot, where is you weapons stores?" Fink closed his eyes, trembling and terrified. " _WHEA'R!?_ " Seeing that he was prepared to die, Fitzroy looked upward to the balcony. "Well, if you ain't gonna be coop'ratif, den I got jus da ting to loose yo' lips." With a nod her men on the balcony apprehended Fink's wife and son, leading them down the stairs. Surmounting the stage, they brought them into Fink's forefront and forcibly put them upon their knees.

"Fitzroy!" Slate bellowed.

"He say anotha word, ya'll shoot him." She said without looking. Slowly she lowered her iron to the hysterical woman's forehead. Unease overcame her people, and I saw in the crowed Joshua Cade's appalled face. She seemed to sense the danger. "They Founders, oppressors! They deserve a lot worse for what they've done to us!" She looked about to the crowd, then back to Fink...cocked an eyebrow. "You still think I bluffin', don you?" Abruptly she turned and fired point blank into the wife's head. Brains splattered across the floor and men behind her, Fink's wife fell to the floor. Beside me Elizabeth screamed

"Lilith!" Fink wailed, horror upon his face. "I'll get you for this Fitzroy!" He shouted. "If it's the last thing I do I'll..."

Fitzroy turned and her pistol went off again, Fink's brains joining his wife's across the stage. With half of his skull removed, the dead industrialist slumped to the floor, mustache and legs twitching. Before them the boy was screaming. Wiping her face with Fink's blood like a swath of Lakota war paint, Fitzroy held her weapon aloft and roared. "For da Vox! For da People!"

Cheers rose but to the side I saw Slate's men moving. A scuffled ensued, then one of his troops made a dash for the stage. With a frustrated roll of her eyes Fitzroy shot the trooper down. Again Elizabeth shrieked and recoiled, which only served to draw Fitzroy's venomous eyes to her. Seeing what was about to transpire, I slammed the muscle next to me in the foot with my heel and took the girl to the ground. Daisy's shot went high, plugging a man as he burst inward through the Good Time's entrance. He sprawled dead to floor.

Across the room gunfire erupted, single shots at first then the bursts of automatics. Everyone was diving for cover, and as a snake of bullets blew the side of Fitzroy's stage to splinters she fell off it onto the floor. Bullets raked the walls like hail.

"Stay down!" I screamed as one of Slate's troopers fell to the floor before us. By the way Elizabeth had sucked up to the carpet she had no intentions of doing anything but. To the side I saw Joshua's troupe working their way toward Slate's remaining ten, who though outnumbered with their military weapons were more than holding their own.

"Get the girl!" I heard and my head swiveled to see Fitzroy pointing a pair of burly Irishmen at Elizabeth and me. "And kill _him_!"

Her lugs were charging at me malice aforethought. With a Triple R conveniently delivered upon the floor before me, I decided to educate them on the importance of hospitality. Popping to my knee I whipped the repeater into my shoulder and opened fire, weapon slightly upon its side. Blood sprayed from the first's chest and out his back, while the recoil carried three hits across the second. As they fell several others behind howled and went down. I swung the gun toward Fitzroy. Her eyes widened As she dove behind a table I blew it to shreds. Down the stage, amongst the feet of fighting, fleeing, dying men, I saw Fink's boy in flight.

I yanked Elizabeth upward and threw her toward the door, firing a burst as I backpedaled toward the light. By now the Good Time Club had descended into bloody pandemonium and it was hard to tell who was shooting whom. As I pushed a bewildered Elizabeth through the threshold, the doorjamb to the right of my head exploded, stinging me with splinters. I spun backward and fired blind, eye to eye with Fitzroy as she took aim from behind an overturned table. I took wood from its top but caused her to duck. Aiming for a follow up, I pulled the trigger to a click.

Hands yanked me backward now, pulling me through the double doors and onto the ground as a bullet shattered the door glass above. Beneath me I heard a gasp, felt a small form and rolled to find that in my fall I'd landed upon Elizabeth. Above me more glass shattered and I covered us from the shards. I rolled from her chest and she gasped for breath, devastated eyes gazing momentarily into mine.

Screams and the crack of firearms rose from behind us. I leapt to my feet, wrapped my arms around her and took off. Leaving Fink's smashed bronze behind, we staggered down the Good Time's steps past a ruined hot dog cart onto the cobbled street below. We weren't the only ones.

A swell of men were escaping the club, spitting forth in threes and fours, running for their lives from a place filled well beyond its capacity. Inside as I looked back I could see a mass of flesh pressed into the open doors, men screaming as they were crushed in the stampede.

As the lucky ones fled past us, another boom rattled the street. People turned and looked to see a Vox gunship explode in flames, spiraling downward. From the clouds a Columbian descended, followed by another. Having spied the Vox spilling from the Good Time Club, I could see the vessel's gunners smiling as their turrets spun our way.

"Dammit!" I said and drew Elizabeth behind a stone wall. The big guns went off and an eight inch shell flew into the Good Time Club's façade, right where the stampede had bunched dozens in the doorway. Fink's felled statue exploded, sending his one ton head spinning madly in the air and limbs to the depths of the Atlantic below. Above it the marquis crashed to the disrupted steps and exploded in shards. The clock fell to the ground with a discordant bong. Slowly the building reeled and collapsed inward upon itself.

"Again, fire!" I heard from the lead gunship, a three hundred footer like we'd destroyed at the Arsenal. Though the pair were over two hundred yards away, for naval guns their range was point blank. With all my might I held Elizabeth to the wall and concealment, covered her head amid unending screams. The second shot lit into the club with a thunderous ball of fire and brought the whole interior down in a billowing crash.

I bolted to my feet, yanking her after me. "Come on!"

By the time the third salvo hit I'd gotten us into an alleyway, a dark but clean escape between tall brick townhouses that led to an adjacent road. Emerging behind the Good Time Club, we could still hear pistols and the occasional automatic, punctuated by the agonies of the dying beneath the collapsing, burning structure.

"We have to move." I said, realizing that even though she was with me the woman was near catatonic.

"They...she killed them. She..."

"It's war, Elizabeth. There's going to be a lot more of it." I put my hand behind her back and tried to calm her, but she suddenly sucked into me. For a moment I closed my eyes. With Elizabeth's face snug in my shoulder, I stared at the empty chamber. She pulled back.

"That's...that's the last of it?" She asked shakily.

I glanced down the alley toward the next open street. "Unless you happen to have a clip or two hiding under that skirt." She didn't answer but pointed to a stain of red upon my left arm now and wiped even more from my forehead. As much as I hurt already, I'd not even noticed.

"How much more can you take?" She said, putting my neckerchief on the wound.

"It's superficial." I gestured with the weapon down the street. She puzzled for a moment as if seeing something, suddenly scampering ten feet away beside a dilapidated waste bin. "What are you doing!?" I whispered, grabbing her by the arm for cover as she returned. In her hands she held two magazines of Triple R ammunition, 15 rounds each. "Where did you..."

"It was just lying there." She said.

I looked at her in consternation but was actually relieved. "Don't do that again. Come on."

Behind we heard renewed explosions, big shells raking the frontages where the Vox were fighting back from. Overhead I heard a droning and looked up to see the second gunship coming in low, this one's railings loaded with Founder soldiers. Elizabeth's gaze followed.

"My father's men?" Upon a nearby building top the zepp alighted, disgorging its heavily armed troopers. "What are they doing!?"

"Looking for you. Come on!"

Soon Finkton was crawling with Comstock's counter assault, troopers spilling into the streets and alleyways, shooting anyone they came across. Whether they bothered to discriminate friend or foe I didn't stick around to find out. As the wave of gray threatened to swamp us, we ducked into a nearby frontage.

"It's okay." I said, holding her to me. With a wary eye I peered out the window, watching the soldiers in the streets.

#

Neither in a hurry to get captured nor killed, we remained there for over an hour, waiting until the commotion had died down. When we finally took to the streets we found ourselves no longer in Finkton but Shantytown. On a good day Finkton might have passed for parts of Queens. On a good day Shantytown passed for the slums about Pittsburgh. About the streets people hovered around burning drums, trying to keep warm from the late morning chill. Bums lay in the streets, drunk, while dirty laundry hung in the air. The scent of shit and piss hung in the air. Having seen only her tower and Columbia's brighter spots, it didn't surprise me the girl was in shock.

"Lovely, eh?"

"These people..." Elizabeth said. "They...live this way?"

"That's why half of them are off turning the apple cart over, I suppose." At the sound of gunfire and screams down the street I pulled her back into an alley. With the battle continuing I led her down it to the next street over. The faces on the pavement changed, the squalor didn't.

We wandered through the maze of streets, trying to find our way toward the airside and a zepp. Each time I sought the breeze I found either a dead end or gunfire. Angry voices rose and passed. We hid in the shadows. Realizing Shantytown was a dead end, I turned us back. Eventually Finkton's towers loomed over us. At the doors of a shuttered factory Elizabeth picked a lock. Inside we found a bloodstained lobby, a shot apart desk and stairs that led up and down. A Constable lay dead behind it, Broadsider still in hand.

"Which way?" Elizabeth sighed as I reached down and took it.

"Down."

"Why ' _down_?'" Elizabeth asked as we descended. The case landed us at a long service corridor, one in obvious haste abandoned. Utility carts laden with goods remained upon the floor.

"Because ' _up'_ worked so damned well last time. Besides, if we stay up there we're going to get caught." The truth was that I had no idea where I was going. With the Vox and unexpected counterassault of Comstock's forces, I was simply trying to stay free...and alive. "Unfortunately I'm plum out of Montgomerys this time." I muttered. "You need to step up, girl."

"Montgomerys?"

"The people that helped me get to you. Back in Emporia before the other day I saved a couple from being stoned.

"Stoned?"

"It's where you grab rocks and throw them at someone until they're dead." Her eyes went wide. "Fink...the man Fitzroy killed...he and his lot at the Raffle were going to murder a man and woman because they black and white and made the mistake of falling in love. Anyway, bullets beat baseballs and we managed to escape. They led me to a couple that actually helped. Well, me and Edmonton by that time. The Montgomerys."

"Helped you with what?"

"I told you, helped me get to _you_." I offered her the Broadsider. "This might make you a bit more comfortable."

"It didn't make me comfortable last time."

In her ignorance she waved the gun at me. Deftly I sidestepped, taking the weapon with the palm of my hand. "Elizabeth, don't point it at anyone unless you intend to kill. And don't put your finger inside the trigger guard until you're _certain_."

"I'm sorry. I told you before, I don't think I can do this."

"If you want to see Paris, you're going to have to." Reluctantly she took it.

"Where are we?" She eventually asked, eyes taking in the utilitarian passageway.

"Maybe one of Fink's factory offices." We carried on down the passage, passing a pair of wide windows looking out over a floor filled with machinery. Although it was a workday the tools were still, the equipment idled. Assembly lines and work stations ran far as the eye could see. Along grated walkways I could see stairs and ladders, leading to at least three floors of the same below. At the bottom of that third I could see another passage placarded, _"Emergency Exit_." With my gaze I turned hers toward the sign. "That's our ticket out of here."

"A way out?" She whispered.

"Come on."

We entered the elevator to the tremor of artillery, rounds whose distant impact knocked the dust from the overhead. As the doors closed a veneer of it settled upon us. In her palm Elizabeth traced the dirty handgun's lines. "I still...still can't believe she did that."

As the series of idled assembly lines outside slid upward, I found myself thinking the same. "Neither can I. I guess the only difference between Comstock and Fitzroy is the spelling." Studying our descent, I began to see a pattern in the steelwork. "Emporia was lifted on solid bedrock." I said, looking at the array of girders. "But this place must be built on these."

"What does that mean?" Elizabeth asked, gun close to her chest. In our flight her blue necktie had come undone, shirt unloosed. Her skin was dotted with scrapes.

"It means that Finkton is hollow...just like one giant building. Maybe Shantytown too. We should be able to find a way anywhere we want to go." I caught her eye. "Are you okay?"

"I don't even begin to know what 'okay' might feel like anymore."

The lift came to a halt three levels below, and as its doors opened Elizabeth and I emerged onto a deserted production line. All along its length in more complete stages of assembly sat motorized turrets. "Fink must make his weapons here, like the ones we saw before." I leaned over to examine one of the device's facades, which lacking an outer skin seemed to be binoculars and inhumanly mechanical gearing. "I've never seen anything like this...how these things can move and track people."

Ahead of us I heard a scurrying. Elizabeth raised her weapon but I knocked it down, spying the pad of small feet behind a conveyor. "Fink's kid."

As she began to speak I heard a door slam open. Larger feet followed. "Come on out heah, boy. You can quit runnin'...we take cah o' you good." Fitzroy's echoed. Together Elizabeth and I clung tightly to the wall, concealed by an intervening workstation's machinery. From our vantage point we peered out, barely able to see the woman and her compatriots. With a nod she sent one right, the other left around the assembly stations. Fitzroy had her weapon drawn.

"We have to do something!" Elizabeth whispered. "They're going to kill him!"

"Will you just give me time to think!?" I said, trying to figure out if I had a chance with the repeater against three widely separated figures.

"If you won't do something, I will!" Elizabeth cried, dashing off to our left.

"Dammit!" I said. Belatedly my grasp caught her foot but only caused her to trip, the woman catching herself upon a wall with both hands. Loosened, her Broadsider tumbled into a nearby wall with a clatter. Elizabeth glared back to me with fierce eyes.

"Who der?" Fitzroy announced, swinging about with her weapon. Hearing Elizabeth's collision behind him, one of her lackeys turned and took aim. With no obvious target he held his fire. For a moment Elizabeth considered the weapon, but seeing its retrieval would expose her she went on her way. I cursed beneath my breath.

"I heah you, boy. You come out now an' we be nice." Daisy implored. Her voice had murderous edge to it. Hearing Elizabeth off to my left, I rolled my eyes. A graceful dancer she might have been, but here she was a klutz.

"Is this it, is this your movement, Daisy?!" I shouted to pull her off the girl. A shotgun blast struck the worktable I'd sheltered behind, blowing wood and metal shavings into the wall before me.

"False Shepherd...so you heah _too_. What a surprise. Don' matter, cause dis what need to be done." As her men strode the creaking floorboards to my left and right, I heard a boy squeal. "Der you ah, you li'l shit!"

I rolled left and came up into a crouch. The man with her, one of her Irish, brought his shotgun down. I fired a burst into his thigh and groin, blowing his right leg clean off. He screamed and his gun discharged, shooting another hole in the table. Footsteps pounded from my right.

Rolling behind the blasted table, I covered just in time to avoid a barrage of rifle shot. On the work floor the Irishman was screaming, his cries lessening as his lifeblood drained into the sawdust. Anxiously I estimated how much ammo I had remaining. Floorboards creaked to my right. I looked up to see a rifle barrel poking over my head, angling downward toward me. Throwing my barrel backwards over my head, I pulled the trigger. Amid bullets and screams his rifle shot a hole in the wall. I rolled right and opened fire, seeing my assailant shot in the neck with half of his face hanging.

As he collapsed to the floor I saw Fitzroy clutching Fink's lad by the mouth. He writhed and squealed in her arms. I stood...kicked the rifle away from her dying man.

"Let him go, Daisy. This is done." She raised her pistol at me, barrel shaking. Fitzroy was dedicated and a proven killer. I stopped where I stood.

"See, the Founders ain't nothin' but weeds." She continued, the swath of red across her face and crazy eyes marking her as out of her mind. "Cut 'em down and they jus' grow back."

"Daisy, stop!" I said, raising my weapon. For all her vitriol she hadn't shot the boy.

"If you wanna get rid of a weed, you gotta pull it up from the root! It's the only way to be..."

Without warning a pair of shears erupted from the woman's chest, their point glittering amid flowing petals of blood. Freed from the woman's clutches Fink's son shrieked and fled, dashing past my leg and to my left while Daisy gurgled and slumped to the floor. With dumbstruck eyes Fitzroy turned, clutched at a horrified Elizabeth before expiring in a lifeless heap. Blouse and face spattered in red, Elizabeth stood before me, gazing at the shears in hand.

"Elizabeth..." I reached out to touch her but with wild eyes she looked up and stepped back, glancing at both me and her bloody instrument. For a moment I thought she was going to scream. Instead she threw the shears away and tore off through the machinery.


	16. Chapter 16 Burn

**16\. Burn.**

Whether she'd followed the kid intentionally I couldn't tell, but as I wound my way through the workbenches and assembly lines I saw it to be the case. Fink's boy exited the same way she was fleeing. She wasn't throwing tears at me this time and I caught her just before the doors.

"Oh, my God...what've I _done_!?" She wailed as I pulled her to me.

"What you _had_ to do. Look, I _know_ how this feels." She pressed herself into my chest, sobbing.

Eventually she looked up, eyes imploring somehow that I absolve her. "I...I guess it runs in the family."

"No." I said, wiping her tears away. "It doesn't. You're _nothing_ like your father." I heard a door slam...glanced back over my shoulder. "But that kid is going to make everything we've done for naught if he gets himself killed. We have to catch him before Daisy's folks do."

I kicked the double doors to our right inward, holding her in one hand and my repeater in the other. Above them the sign read, "Entering Fink-Lutece Liftworks," the 'Lutece' in the sign scratched out. "You know what this place is?" She shook her head and I realized I'd get little of value from her. Passages veered off to the left and right but I kept hearing noise ahead and carried on. The next pair of doors opened to five hundred feet of nightmare.

Below the Atlantic tossed and turned, and amid a swath of clouds off to the right I could see Emporia's smoldering towers. Across its gulf another building hung, reached by an iron truss-work bridge suspending runs of cable.

The Liftworks.

Though surrounded by a cylinder of glass the bridge gave us pause. My eyes fixated through its grated metal walk to the blue below. Ahead I heard a noise...looked up to see the boy running. Releasing her to grasp the handrail, I headed out. "Come on. If a damned ten year old can do it, so can we." She simply stood there, petrified. "Elizabeth! We have to move!" She startled and took a first step, then another. Soon we were making progress. As we made our way forward I could feel the catwalk swaying. Alongside the Liftworks' wharves two smaller airships were moored, and I could see people in civilian dress piling onboard. "There." I said, gesturing their way with the gun. "That's our way out of here." I felt my feet leaden, our steps as if under some great weight. Neither of us had fully recovered from the terror of the Monument.

After what seemed like an eternity we reached the other side, passing with relief through the Liftworks gates into 'solid' ground. Beyond the gates a sign read "Authorized Personnel Only." Inside lay a deserted factory floor, similar to what we'd seen in the Fink Factory.

" _Fink!?"_ I shouted, weapon at the ready.

Silently Elizabeth stepped forward, reaching up to touch the half assembled gunmetal of a foot long cylinder. "What...what is this?" She whispered, puzzlement lifting the devastation that had lingered upon her face.

I sidestepped to a conveyor belt, sweeping the floor with my sights. With my barrel I rolled one of the tubes silver length...looked at its empty window. It was the same I'd seen at the core of the _Star of the Atlantic_. "I think it's a lift cell."

"A _Lutece_ cell?" She took it in hand. "It doesn't feel very light."

"I guess they ain't fully cooked." Hearing a slam of door I hastened my pace down the belt, coming to a wall and doorway to the right of the line. Here the cells had gained parts and a crystal peep hole, the metal assembly around it open to reveal a pair of aligned magnets. Blue eyes stared up at me from beneath a stand of machinery.

"Hey." I said, lowering my repeater's barrel.

"Please don't shoot me, Mister." The kid said, eyes glistening below the brim of newsy. Had my attention not been drawn to the belt by Elizabeth, I'd have missed him.

"We ain't about to shoot you. Come here."

"You...shot those other men."

"They deserved it."

With a reproachful glance Elizabeth imposed herself, kneeling until her eyes were level with the boy's. "Mr. DeWitt didn't want to, but they were going to hurt him like they did your father. Like they did your mother. I'm...sorry that happened. Please, we want to help you."

"Is my father dead?"

"Yes, he is." She said, a silent tear trailing down her cheek. "A...a lot of people are." She held her arms out to him. As the boy began to sob she hugged him, a baleful moan escaping her lips as much for herself as the boy.

I looked about warily. "We have to go."

"I don't know the way." Elizabeth snuffled.

"These cells get packed and shipped somewhere. Our destination's got to be at the end of the line."

#

"Look, I'm, uh, sorry about your mother." I managed as we walked along. With his hand in Elizabeth's the boy only looked at me, content to draw himself closer to her at my remark. It didn't matter...the woman was dead and nothing I'd say would change that. I wasn't about to say I was sorry in the least about his father's fate. The son of a bitch had deserved everything he got and more. As we moved forward I found the next hatch closed and struggled to undo its latch, finally turning its lever with a grunt. About its sides placards warned, " _Danger, X Rays!_ "

"Elizabeth, you said you'd read about Physics and such. What's an 'X-Ray'?" I entered the chamber, finding the line devoid of people and dark but lined with machinery. Although it was inactive, a few lights had been left on.

"Rontgen radiation. Dis...discovered a few years after the Lutece particle...1895, I think. It's a kind of light."

I prodded the equipment with the barrel of my repeater. "Light, eh? What good are they and why would they have a bunch of red danger signs here about them?"

The question gave Elizabeth pause. "You can use them to see through things. I read that they thought them harmless at first, but with exposure people got badly burned and disfigured. Some people even died."

"Died?" I said as I looked at a burnt spot on the assembly belt. On a track between two pincers a lift module was centered, window open. Above it hung an upside down steel mushroom, bracketed by two smaller balls on electrodes.

"What's your name?" Elizabeth said, kneeling to look the boy in the eye. I could still hear the catch in her throat.

"Freddy." He answered, voice small.

"Freddy, will you stay with us? We're going to get you to your family." When he didn't respond Elizabeth took his hand and rose. Since Fitzroy she hadn't been doing much responding either.

"This looks like the place they make lift cells." I said, absorbing the equipment and layout. "It looks a lot like the gear they were using on you in the tower."

I heard her sigh. Composing herself, she looked about and took an abandoned manual in blood-stained hand. She seemed to read silently the pages before moving toward more interesting fare. ' _The so called quantum Lutece Particle is in actuality a special case of the more generalized Lutece field, a time symmetric application whereupon the locus is anchored at the following spatio-temporal coordinates in Heliocentric reckoning, with a Poynting vector normal and inward to the planar interface.'_

"In English?" I followed.

With trembling, blood blackened fingernail she traced below the numbers that followed. "These are...spherical coordinates centered on the Sun." She turned weary and perplexed eyes toward mine. "Very long and precise terms...the two angles zero and the radius just under a half million miles. I think they must set the machine with them." The page was stamped top and bottom bright red, ' _SECRET - EYES ONLY_.' "And I think this Poynting vector...it's normally the cross product of the Electric Field rotated into the Magnetic and establishes a directional flux density...I think they're talking about a tear."

"Then these Lutece particles...they're just small tears? And all Lift cells are set with _these_ coordinates?" I asked, not understanding half of what she'd said.

"It seems so...every one of them. But tears...they open to different times and spaces and worlds. What could they be anchored to?"

"I don't know. The lift cells I saw on the _Star of the Atlantic_ only had a spark in them, but it was bright as hell. Couldn't you, uh, open it to these coordinates yourself?"

She frowned. "No. That's not the way I do it. I have to...have to see what I'm looking for, to imagine. That's why I draw and paint...if I get it right, it makes it easier."

"Like wish fulfillment." Carefully I sheared the page from the book. Elizabeth seemed appalled. "Might come in handy later." Folding it into the pocket of my vest, I looked back to the kid. "Who is your family, Freddy? Any Aunts or Uncles?"

Amid a wet sniffle the boy spoke. "Uncle Albert and Aunt Lucy."

"Where do they live?" I asked, worried now about the noise I heard echoing in the distance.

"Emporia, Sir." For the son of a tyrant he seemed unusually well mannered.

"Emporia, eh?"

A crashing now came from behind us, not from the entrance we'd come by but another more distant. I heard men working their way through the assembly lines. "Fan out! The little bastard's gotta be here somewhere!" Pushing with the back of my hand Elizabeth and the boy aside, I leapt upon the next door, a door whose lever would not budge.

"Is it locked?!" Elizabeth whispered. I shrugged. Down she went to her knees, working at it from the rubber floor. After a word I didn't quite recognize there was a flash. The door came open. Several tables lay parallel to one another in the next room, along which tracks branched from the finishing cell we'd just left. Beside one a dead man lay on the plank, throat sliced. The boy jumped and Elizabeth recoiled, knocking a welding tank and torch to the floor.

"D'you hear somethin'?" I heard, the voice of another man. "Over there in the lift cell cages!"

We crouched through the tables, stepping about the dead fellow's body with as much stomach as we could muster. Judging by the dried blood, it had been many hours since he'd met his demise. Slipping through the exit doors, we came onto a loading dock. Several box cars hung about the artificial cavern below, several more suspended upon the idle freight line at the space's center. Down a long passage I could see the brilliance of cloud and daylight, a vista that looked like the one Elizabeth had conjured in the elevator, only farther away. Despite the distant daylight it was dark here, illuminated only by a handful of caged light bulbs.

As Elizabeth and Freddy staggered to a halt behind me, I heard a door open to my left. Silhouetted by the spot of daylight were a contingent of ill-tempered Vox. "You!" One shouted, hefting a shotgun and tire iron. The others bore rifles, rifles they'd trained upon us.

I realized Elizabeth was afraid because that damnable glimmering in the air appeared before us, the one balloons and sailors had frequented and almost put me to an end. "Stop it!" I said as the six approached, not to them but her.

"They're going to kill us!" She said hysterically, and by their eyes I knew she was right.

"Give us 'em an we let you go." A lean brown man said, a worker type in blue coveralls and white shirt. The weapon he carried was a Winchester '73...old school but it could still pack a wallop.

"Desert." I said. "The damned Sahara at noon! Open a tear!"

"I can't do that!"

"Bullshit, Elizabeth! Think of a goddamned burning desert or we're gonna die!"

As the white guy who'd first spoken came into view with gun aimed at my head, I dropped and rolled for a stack of crates. Their guns followed but before they could open fire the air crackled and exploded beside me. In the shade of the loading dock the brilliance of the sun burst forth and to a man their shots went astray. From behind the crates I raked the lot, shooting out knees, thighs, chests and heads with a sideways track of my repeater until it clicked empty.

"Booker, catch!" Turning past the side of the shimmering ring, I saw Elizabeth heave the Broadsider my way. The Broadsider we'd _clearly_ left behind with dead Fitzroy. As I plucked it from the air two Vox were still alive. As one took aim I put a bullet in his chest and another into his neck for good measure. The last came running barrel forward, firing blindly. I shot him in the head and he spilled onto the concrete. I grabbed the repeater and dropped to scavenge ammo. Two of the rifles had .303 but only ten rounds. The boy was cowering upon the ramp.

I heard a pop and darkness enveloped the space, my eyes only slowly adjusting. As I fumbled for rounds in the dim light the handful I'd gathered tumbled, bouncing and rolling willy-nilly amid the sprawl of bodies. Suddenly Elizabeth was at my side, holding my hand, whispering into my ear. "It's all right, Mr. DeWitt. You got them. Here." She said, kneeling. She handed me a magazine.

"What's this?" I asked, looking at the object until I realized it was ammunition. "Where the hell..."

She put her hand upon my cheek with a bittersweet smile. "Apparently they just leave them laying round in the Sahara."

#

The prospect of how she'd come by the Broadsider again, let alone the magazines now and before set my mind to thinking, distracting me for a while as we walked silently onward. Why the Vox had surprised me so I didn't know. What I did know was that this ordeal was wearing upon me more than I realized. In the distance clouds could be seen, resolving amid the brazen rectangle of light at the tunnel's end. It wasn't the blinding sun of Elizabeth's Sahara but it was bright enough to hurt the eyes. I found myself squinting. Down the center of the thirty foot wide corridor skyrails hung near the ceiling. I remembered my ride to Monument Island on the rails and shuddered.

"Emporia, eh?" I asked the boy as I held my hand against the bright. "Is there an easy way to get there?"

"No, Sir." He answered with sullen voice and downcast eyes. "It's Market Street where my...Uncle and Aunt live, and my school."

My memories turned back to my Grandfather, and how I'd come to live with him. Family was important. "We'll get you there, son. Back to them, that is."

Arms about herself, Elizabeth's attention turned from the boy to me. "I didn't gather you the charitable sort, Mr. DeWitt."

"I'm not." I answered, feeling the heft of my weapon laden with her destructive fruit. "But I know what it's like to be abandoned. I won't abandon him to the Vox...and I won't abandon you."

"No. You wouldn't, would you?" Elizabeth said softly. Though still a mess, her tears had dried. When not speaking to me or the boy I'd found her lost in that distant gaze. What she'd done would never be far from her mind now. Nor mine. "Do we even have a plan? To get him back there?"

I glanced to the boy holding her sleeve, whose eyes gazed vacantly upon the rolling clouds ahead. "Maybe we get to the airships and find someone to take him off our hands. The _last_ thing we need to do is to go crashing about in the heart of Founder territory with Fink's kid in tow. You could fix all of this by just doing that thing you do...opening a...a tear."

"I can't. I told you that I can't just do that."

"You just did it back _there_."

"I'd seen pictures of deserts. Paris when I had something to visualize it with...but to other parts of Columbia I've never seen? Even just outside the door of my old home? It's like a _morass_. _Nothing_ is clear. _Everything_ is uncertain. I can't see Emporia any better than _you_ can." Her eyes cast up to my hand. "I so _want_ to but I promise you, I _can't_. Not here in Columbia. Something is...I can feel something doesn't let me see here, not well and not far. It's like..."

"Like in the tower?" I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. She nodded and I noticed Freddy attached to her leg. "What about other places?"

"Sometimes."

"You know, if Daisy's people...whatever they've devolved into now, if any of them capture the boy, they'll kill him...and us too." Thinking about what she'd said...what she'd done, I couldn't help but ask. "If you can _see_...like your father, you have the gift. Prophecy."

There was no chuckle this time. Blood, I suppose, had a way of drowning one's sense of humor. "I wouldn't call it that...it's so...Biblical. I can just...see...other places sometimes. For the longest time I simply thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me. Then I started to realize there was more to it than that."

"Apparently your father thinks it's pretty 'Biblical.' He's grooming you to take his stead."

"I've read the good book, Mr. DeWitt..." She said, looking at me sternly. "Particularly the _New_ Testament, despite my tutors' refusal to provide me an unadulterated copy. I can assure you that from my observation, very little I've seen here in Columbia is 'Biblical'."

"I'd have never noticed. Frankly, it surprises me that dear old Dad doesn't have you brainwashed like the rest of these morons."

"It wasn't like his people didn't try, but..." She sighed. "I've always been a curious sort and, well...I have ways of getting what I want."

I found myself wondering if she were simply talking or issuing a threat. "And what did Elizabeth find out from her foray into religion?"

"That my father's 'scriptures' are forged. They hold none the Lord's most important truths...those of his sacrifice for us...the equality of people in his eyes. I will _never_ follow in his footsteps."

I'd never been much on religion, and wasn't about to start. "Anything else?" I added snidely.

"That there _is_ a God, Mr. DeWitt." She looked at me intently before her eyes fell to the boy's hand within hers. She continued with the barest whisper. "And he'll...he'll hold us accountable for what we've done."

She was new to the world, I thought, and I could forgive her for being naïve and fearful. Me however...I'd been around enough to know there _was_ no such higher power, or at least none who cared about innocents. Still, she was observant...for such a religious people I'd seen precious few Bibles about, particularly when everyone down below had been slinging them at me since Wounded Knee. Spying people in silhouette against the railing outside the slip, I held my hand up, motioning my charges back into the shadows.

"Stand back, stand back!" A uniformed man cried, black brimmed wheel cap and silver badge upon it marking him as a figure of authority. "The next ship is due in any moment." About him others had gathered, men and women, well dressed though haggard. "Mr. Fink assures you that all employees will be evacuated for the duration of the emergency. Please have your identification ready prior to boarding."

"But what if the Vox and Bolsheviks overrun your perimeter?" One man said unnerved.

Unconsciously the gentleman in the hat palmed the handgun at his side. "The Vox and their allies might control the upper tiers of the plant, but they seem content to leave us alone. We've put several boats across to Emporia and we see no reason this shall be the last. Please maintain your places in line."

Slipping from the shadows, our trio entered the ragged crowd toward its rear, blending in with the well to do and fearful. The Constable's eyes were elsewhere, and I detected as much worry on his part as the man he'd shut down...he seemed to be scanning the approaches for the likes of whom we'd killed.

"Comstock's men are in few number here." I said to Elizabeth. "The fight must not be going in their favor if they're evacuating from their bread and butter, but then again, with Fitzroy gone..." For a moment she seemed like she'd come unglued and I strangled the thought. "The Vox haven't been as restless. It seems like a standoff."

"You need to remove your belongings or we can't take any more people! The ship is full!" I heard a mate say from onboard the boat's crowded outer deck. Above him the ship's three hundred foot long fabric popped and snapped in the wind. "You're going to have to remove some of your luggage if we're going to fit more people on deck!"

Holding the boy's hand ever more tightly, Elizabeth refocused and pointed toward gunships exchanging rocket fire over Emporia's distant skyline. "Do you think we'll be able to make it?"

"I don't know. But if we can just get to Emporia before Comstock and the Vox blow it all to hell, we might have a chance." Weapon at my side, I pointed with hand toward Downtown, which from our vantage point bore an uncanny resemblance to New York's Wall Street as viewed from Governor's Island. "From Downtown we'd have to make the Aerodrome, but...maybe I have some acquaintances there who just might be able to help."


	17. Chapter 17 Deluge

**17\. Emporia Aflame**

As evening approached the clouds had thickened, and worst of all to the west a towering wall of cumulus had built in, horizon to horizon. With the coming of night even from this distance I could see lightning. The air was moist and pregnant...ready to burst.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked with a glance upward, brushing the hair from her eyes. Unconsciously she patted Freddy's hand. She'd obviously never been through a storm on the Kansas.

"Thunderheads. Big ones. I'd venture within an hour or two the weather's gonna get fierce here. We'd best be indoors."

"And what are the prospects of _getting_ indoors?" At her side the kid was looking down, a look I knew. She'd tried to talk to him, tried to get him to come out of his shell, but I knew how it was. He'd come out on his own time, and not until. And he'd never be the same.

"At this rate...slim."

Her unengaged hand rose to her brow, scanning the encroaching storm and building billows about us. "I have an idea." She said. With Freddy in tow she approached the conductor. "Pardon me, Sir...I have a matter of importance to bring up."

The man turned weary eyes to her. "Ma'am, I appreciate that you're a lady with a child, but as you can see we have more than our fill of the same. You'll have to wait."

Elizabeth shook her head and took the man by his elbow, "But you don't understand..." She pleaded, leaning in to whisper. "This is Frederick _Fink_ , the son of _Jerimiah Fink_."

"Mister _Fink_ is dead." The conductor said, and in his delivery I discerned both worry and oddly relief. "Or so the wireless maintains. As, I am afraid, are his wife and..." Looking to the child, recognition seemed to cross his face.

"Mister...?"

"Cromwell." The man supplied, now gob smacked at the similarly wide eyed urchin in Elizabeth's care.

"Mister Cromwell. This poor boy _is_ the orphan of, and heir to, Mr. Fink. My...husband...and I...who are...uh...friends of the family, well we've been charged with delivering him to Mr. and Mrs. _Albert_ Fink of East Market Street. Please, we've not made the first boat and I promise you that Mr. Fink's brother will front a substantial cash award for the safe delivery of his Nephew. Could you not see it in your graces to...to find us a spot?"

"Mister Fink's only son, _here?_ " He whispered below his breath and knelt. "Are you _Frederick_ Fink, boy?" With those distant eyes the kid nodded and produced a golden stopwatch, inside its lid a photograph of his deceased father...himself holding a stopwatch. "By God, you _are_ him." With serious bent upon his face, the man turned and shouted to the nearest deckhand, even as he prepared to cast a hawser to the mooring zepp. "Vincent...special passage! We got Fink's son here and his guardians!"

"That's Mister Fink's _boy_!?" The deckhand cried. By now everyone was looking upon us, some in shock and others in envy. I was looking at them with my gun in hand. "Praise be to the Prophet, it _is_!

#

As the refugee sloop angled between the Liftwork's landing and Emporia's Prosperity Station, the wind began to shift. The storm was getting closer and although air travel was faster than rail or, Heaven forbid, Columbia's suicidal sky rails, time dragged. We would be cutting it close. Elizabeth was leaning back against the outer promenade's beige painted walls with the boy in her arms, wind whipping through her blood crusted hair. She hadn't noticed me watching, and for that I was content. How could someone do what they'd done to her, I thought? Monsters. And now _she'd_ killed. I closed my eyes and sighed.

About us upon the packed railings people were nervous. Rumors abounded of the ravenous, murdering mob of anarchists that had taken both Fink's dirty jewel and Shantytown. By the looks of the burning city ahead and islands amid the clouds, they were on the offensive everywhere in Columbia but Finkton. Eavesdropping upon a man and woman, I heard talk of the wholesale slaughter of Founder families, as well as a battle for the Aerodrome the day before. In my wake I heard pilots, crew and civilians had been mercilessly executed. I tried not to think of it anymore.

Looking back toward smoking Finkton, the monstrosity I'd spied in the nighttime darkness was still overhead, weathervaned to the south as the big blow approached. Nearly as big as Fink's factories themselves, its shadow blotted the sun and cast a chill upon our approach. Across its blood red tailfins I could clearly make out the Socialist State's red star and tethered, ant-sized hands repairing damage. Down the rails distraught refugees called for their loved ones.

' _Red Menace,'_ I heard. _'Bolsheviks.'_ _'Bavarians.'_ Whatever threat they were, they'd not descended upon us like the Vox. No...other than my supposed 'ally's singular visit to Daisy, they'd remained clear of entanglements here. Like Edmonton had said...their interest in Columbia was narrow. The Liftworks.

 _And_ the girl.

"What are they doing?" Elizabeth asked wearily.

"Edmonton wanted the Lutece tubes and probably the secret to make them. Back with Fitzroy it sounded like he found what he was looking for." I remembered the paper in my pocket.

"How...how can that help them?"

"This is going to sound crazy, but I think something's going on in Europe...Eastern Europe and right now with the schism in Germany. Something dangerous."

"Eisner..." She said. The Bolsheviks?"

" _You_ know about politics?"

"Only what I've read." She managed a sad smile. It was an in joke between us now. Elizabeth was _only_ what she read. "Somehow a subscription to _The Atlantic_ and _Telegraph_ began arriving on the dumbwaiters two years ago. Occasionally even a copy of the _New York Times_. Perhaps my father wished me to start learning of things of the outside. Or maybe...maybe one of my wardens wasn't as myopic as I assumed. Anyway, from what I know of it, Europe's old Imperial states are in conflict with the Bolshevik revolutions in Russia and Bavaria. And its spreading."

"War is coming...and not this fratricide here. A real war. And Columbia is the only place in the world that these cells are manufactured. Nations are desperate to get their hands on them."

"Columbia?"

"Yes." I whispered. "Columbia. With the revolt here I'll bet that big red turd won't be the last airship to come calling. And the leaders of the world don't even know about _you_...yet." She closed her eyes and turned away. I stifled a yawn. "I'm tired too. Maybe this will work out." The boy remained snug in her arms, and I worried she was growing attached. "You'd best not get too fond of him, Elizabeth."

"I've never had anything of my own." She said quietly, brushing the boy's sandy locks as he gazed vacantly over the approaching skyline.

"And you still don't. He's Fink's kid. We're I a betting man, and you _know_ I am, I'd reckon he's as rotten as the old man or worse. Be careful what you wish for."

"He didn't seem..."

" _Spoiled?_ He just saw his parents _murdered_ , Elizabeth. Even the most brazen bully would be pissing in his knickers after that."

"People can change, Booker. A seed doesn't always fall at the tree's roots." She whispered, closing her eyes. Water escaped her lid in a single drop. "I...I have to believe that. Look at you."

I tightened the grip upon my repeater as her tear struck the boy's cap. "What about _me_? I've gunned down half of the population of Columbia. I've stolen its Lamb. All to repay money I gambled away. I'm _just_ like my father."

"Then somehow he must have been a good man, because you saved me." Elizabeth said simply with the caress of my face. Her knuckled wiped away tears, but she seemed in that instant to beam. "As awful as this has been, for the last three days I've been free. And I...I've met you." She closed her eyes turned away, leaving me wondering exactly how I was supposed to respond to that. She was no more mine than Fink was hers.

As the air station approached her eyes returned...fingertips found my hand. Forcing myself to look outward, I watched the city's ramparts pass below us and the shadow of an ominous shelf cloud a few miles distant, its arc a backdrop to the Bank of the Prophet and Emporial Traders. "Back at the beach...I wish I'd danced with you, Elizabeth."

With the boy still nestled she placed her head upon my chest. "It's never too late, Mr. DeWitt."

#

To the consternation of our other passengers the _Eagle_ soared over Prosperity Station and on to Emporia's Grand Central Depot. Below I could see one of Comstock's statues, its face blown off and shattered amid the circle of surrounding brick buildings.

"Damn your eyes, man, where are we going!" A man in black top hat demanded, approaching the Conductor to grasp him forcefully by the arm.

Briefly the Conductor glanced to me and Elizabeth. "Good Sir..." He said. "Prosperity Station is boarding zepps just as we. It's not...not _safe_..." I could tell a lie when I heard it, particularly in this case...and the people at Prosperity below I could see were clearly _disembarking_.

"You fool!"

"Sir." The Conductor said sternly. "If you wish to disembark at Prosperity Station I can summon our security men. They shall assure you a timely arrival...though your arrival shall be vertical and stop, how should I say it...shall be _prompt_."

The man backed down, adjusted his disheveled bowtie before returning to his family. His wife was far from amused. By now the wall of black was too close, obscuring the westering sun and casting Emporia, Finkton and the rest of smoldering Columbia into chill shade. A cold breeze caught my skin, worse for Elizabeth, clad only in the wreckage of her blouse and skirt. I removed my vest and draped it about her. "That gold domed building amid the four clarion towers ahead...that must be Central Depot."

She looked to my generosity and wrapped it about the boy. "Yes, I think it must be. I read about Emporia's landmarks until I was blue in the face...but this is the first I've see it other than a photograph."

Gauging the progress of the storm versus our impending arrival, I answered without looking. "And what did that get you?"

"Only that the Grand Central was part of the original Columbian Exposition. My book said the city's grown immensely since then, and many of the buildings were split off to form the focal points of new islands, but the Depot remained here. It's a Skyline and transit center now, but before the Aerodrome was established it received all airships."

As we came alongside the mooring gantry hands began uncoiling rope, men on the slip catching and tying their lengths off as the others tossed them over. Soon gangplanks were dropped, not the solid, secure glass tunnels that had protected us so securely the other day or even the gangway back in New York, but flimsy metal planks with the merest ratchet up railing. The prospect of a fatal mistake in the whipping breeze was evident.

Contrary to the Conductor's earlier demands, in the hasty press to board people no identification had been solicited. Neither in it asked for here. As we departed, however, the Conductor caught up with us. "Good, Sir!" He said. "Young Master Fink..."

Having not quite escaped across the planking, the three of us turned in unison with a measure of dread, the prospect of a five hundred foot drop to the pavement immediate. "He's not in a good way. How might I help you?"

"Please, if you would, my name is Donald Cromwell." The blue coated man said. "Please...put in a good work for us with Mr. Fink's brother. We've gone out of our way to deliver you, and with the storm blowing in...it might have turned out poorly. I've messaged ahead and an automobile should be waiting for you outside."

"I understand..." I said, offering my bandaged hand as I stepped us off the planking to the solid metal deck. "Thank you Mr. Cromwell. I'll ensure you're remembered."

"Sir, I don't believe I caught you and your wife's name?"

I smiled and shook his hand. "I'm...Archibald. Archibald Montgomery. This is my wife, uh...Evelyn." I turned and as a trio we walked away.

We joined the nervous crowd waiting for a lift, one of a bank of glass contraptions decorated by iron grillwork that took us to the open floor below. As we descended the tower swayed. Outside and below I could see red banners affixed to the buildings, whipping madly in the increasing bluster. The similarity to the terminal I'd departed from in Manhattan struck me, although the details were off.

When we emerged into the main concourse a demolished marble of Comstock met us, torso sundered by what could only have been explosive force. As if carried by the plume of fire that had gutted the place, his beard arced upward toward the threatening sky. Columbian troops were present to usher us along beneath the Depot's skylights, moving us hastily through the rubble. The wind was whistling through the blasted windows. Here and there I could see dud rockets lying about, along with unexploded artillery shells. Hundreds of dead Vox dotted the rubble, while at a sign before Comstock's broken Ozymandias a handful of Founders were strewn prominently over the rubble piles...all scalped.

On a makeshift wooden billboard names jumped out, finger painted in blood: Marlowe, Vandervald, Clark, Flambeau, Fink...Saltonstall. Above them these words were scrawled: _"Tell us, Prophet, Do you see us coming?"_ Comstock's name was present, but his top knot missing...Fink's was not.

Though she shielded the boy from the sight, Elizabeth stood beside me, eyes dry as mine. "How could people do this?"

I shook my head, remembering the man I'd dined with on the _First Lady_. Memory of a frigid day in the Dakotas threatened. "Once people get their blood up, it ain't easy to settle it down again."

"This is on our hands, isn't it?"

"No. This isn't our fault. It's _theirs_. You don't import half a million people and treat them like slaves and expect to keep an orderly society. People won't stay down forever. This I know."

"You can't believe that we're innocent in all this..." She retorted. "I wanted to be free, you wanted..." She closed her eyes. "Please."

"Please, _what?_ " I asked, feeling again the hardness in my heart. I knew why it was there, of course, for if I ever truly let go, my sins would burn me to ashes.

"Please, help us make this right." She anguished. "Help _me_ make it right."

Hefting my gun in hand, I nodded to a trooper eyeing us and set us on our way. "There is no making this _right_..." I muttered. "Only surviving. What's done is done. Let's get the boy home and get out of here."

#

Under escort by a skittish squad of Columbian, troopers we headed out in single file. Despite my misgivings Columbia's finest didn't seem to pay us much heed. I suspect that battered as we were, we were unrecognizable...either that or they were worried for more immediate threats. In any case, we exited the Depot's foyer and expansive steps to a demolished city.

Beneath the stormy skies red banners hung from the _EMPORIA TOWERS_ billboard, it's " _Exclusive Shopping_ " and " _Luxury Living"_ blurbs obscured by the snapping rags. Corpses and the wreckage of cars littered the streets. Passing a burnt out restaurant named "The Salty Oyster," we discovered a black Packard 1912 limo and other automobiles waiting alongside a trolley with the placard " _DOWNTOWN_ " upon its fore. At the limousine a tall, dapper man in black tuxedo held a sign for _'Master Frederick Fink.'_

"What's your gut tell you about this, Elizabeth?" I whispered.

"That I feel ill. How could I not with all of this?" Realizing she'd missed my intent, she glanced about. "Is...is there something wrong?"

I cocked my head, unable to shake the unease that had suddenly come upon me. "This is too easy. Drop the kid off with Jeeves up there and we're done."

"That's what we want, isn't it? Why is your stomach upset?"

"It's not."

Stepping between her and the man, I shielded them from his gaze and steered them towards the waiting trolley. As they mounted its steps Elizabeth began to speak. "Booker..." She said. I mouthed to her to be quiet. Together we sat in a far bench seat, the boy in her lap. My head was on a swivel and the hair standing on the back of my neck.

Within moments the driver stood to look backward at us. He was a heavyset fellow whose white hair and short beard might have suggested Christmas were not a revolution underway. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please...a moment of your attention. I realize that you have all come in from Finkton and I am sorry for your loss, but you must see that Emporia has not been spared the ravages of these beastly days. A fight here is still underway. As we proceed to the Downtown and Market Relief Center, please know that you will see...unseemly sights. Remain quiet and aware for any threats and by no means leave the carriage, for your safety and ours. Thank you. We shall be on our way shortly." The trolley's bell rang and we were off.

As street corners slipped by guarded by Militia and a handful of Columbian Regulars, I regarded her with a mix of curiosity and confusion. "So, uh, Elizabeth. Why _are_ you so keen on lock picking?"

"If you lock someone in a cage they develop an interest in such things." She answered. "I won't be locked up again." She placed pinky-challenged hand upon my own bandaged appendage.

"You won't. I promise you."

"You know that's an oath you _cannot_ keep." She whispered, looking at the bevy of deployed troopers. " _Promise me_ that if it comes to it, _you_ will _not_ let him take me back." Gently she raised my hand and placed it about her throat. I'd not realized how terribly fragile it was...how fragile she was.

"It won't come to that. Alright? We dump the kid and we're out."

With a sigh Elizabeth's countenance fell. She turned away. As our trolley clattered along Harmony Lane, to either side brownstone frontages were randomly burnt out, fire teams on station with water wagons and skyline delivered tanks to squelch the smolder remains. It seemed appropriate then that it had begun to rain.

"This is almost as bad as Finkton." I'd continued to hold her hand and stroked her finger. She looked at it.

"You still feel it, don't you?"

"Sometimes." Holding up her thimble digit in the diminished light. "Sometimes I almost feel like I'm touching something, or a stinging sensation." Her tangle of brown shifted about her loosened blue bow. "How..."

"I saw you in your apartments. The ones you hate so much." Still holding her hand, I continued. "Back there...what you asked me to do..."

"Let's...let's not discuss it."

"What did they _do_ to you?"

Her eyes turned up from the boy, and though she didn't cry she wanted to. "If they take me back, that's death, Mr. DeWitt, or something so like it I cannot tell the difference."

#

The trolley came to a halt beneath the Bank of the Prophet. I looked at her and we waited patiently as the others left the car, waited until Freddy looked up and asked if we were staying on. She'd been thinking about Fitzroy again, I could tell. She wiped her eyes and looked to her ward. "We're getting off now, Freddy. We just wanted to make sure the coast was clear."

"Coast was clear?" He asked.

"No one watching for us."

"My father always had men watching us." He answered without thought. Digesting the comment, I offered my hand to Elizabeth once more. "Ready?" She forced a smile and together we rose, venturing out into the gale.

By the time we set foot on the City Center's ruined circle it was coming down in heavy sheets. Lightning cracked nearby, striking one of the towers five hundred feet above and sending the boy snugging for Elizabeth's leg. Picking up our pace with that of the deluge, we sheltered under the red and white awning of Columbia Creamery Shoppe, its entrance grated and doors closed. A sign hanging from the doors said ' _Closed for Business.'_ Gaining my bearings as the rain came laterally, I saw a tower on the skyline not far away that looked familiar. "This way." I said and we were off.

Despite all it had once been, Harmony Lane now catered to blacked carts and automotives amid a strafe of sotten papers in street. To its sides the glass frontages were broken, lampposts bent over. Hanging from window and flagpole sheets streamed crimson into the streets and cobbled gutters.

"I keep thinking about that daydream you had...New York on fire." Elizabeth yelled as we cowered from the spray. "There's something about it!"

"Forget about it." I grumbled, soaked to the bone.

"But Comstock...his prophecy. Me."

Forced to pass beneath a gap in the awnings, I pulled my vest from the boy's shoulders to shield them from the sudden sluice of rain. Thunder rolled through the man made canyons. The handful of automobiles daring to wend the wreckage scurried for their destinations and shelter.

"He's a crazy old man with delusions of godhood, Elizabeth. I don't know why I even mentioned it to you. Roosevelt would blast Columbia from the sky if it even so much as approached the East Coast."

"That's good to know." She acknowledged, observing with a cast of her eyes our now drenched state. "At least, I think it is." Although I could barely see my tower through the downpour, the streets were beginning to look familiar...the Market ahead with Hudson's and Wilson Brothers down one way and Comstock Center down the other.

"That's my Uncle's." The boy said, pointing with an outstretched hand towards a four story red brick masonry at the turn of the street. "Do you think he's all right?"

"I hope so." I said, looking to Elizabeth. With the storm battering the streets I knew that we needed shelter soon. "We're going to put you with some friends who'll take you there. It's too dangerous for us."

" _Why_?" He moaned, and I could hear in that singular word his craving for someplace safe...someone safe. Having lost both his parents to brutal murder, the fact he was even responsive astounded me.

"Because if we take you to your Uncle directly, we're liable to end up dead."

#

I approached the Montgomery's house on the oblique, having Elizabeth remain with the child in the protective enclosure of a trolley stop. Furtively I swept along rain swept buildings to their door and summoned the courage to knock.

"We're not taking visitors today!" I heard a woman's voice say after a tense moment, accompanied by a hectic commotion. Spiders of water splashed my pant legs from the gutters. "I'm sorry, but you must leave!"

"I'm just returning your Skyhook." I yelled, rain streaming down the side of my face. After a moment I heard the door unlatch and crack open. Evelyn Montgomery's green eyes looked back at me, pallor white as a sheet. Behind her the woman's husband Archibald appeared with a shotgun, similarly bleak and unshaven. By their haggard appearance, I decided that we might have slept better than they had.

"You're back." Archibald said, nervously searching the rain behind me.

"I hope you don't mind, but we're in perilous need of assistance. I lied about the Skyhook."

Warily the pair looked to one another. Evelyn's pretty face was now framed by fallen hair, the bun I'd seen her in the previous day fallen and nearly undone. Her eyes had seen more of Columbia in these last hours than she'd cared. "Come in." She finally said. Looking back across my shoulder, I nodded for Elizabeth to follow. As the two dashed across the drowned street I stepped inside, securing the door for their arrival.

Elizabeth helped the child enter before taking my hand. Closing the doors behind us, I searched the boulevard for onlookers and thankfully found none...none, at least, who were willing to brave the lightning riven monsoon. "Thank you." I said as the lock clicked. "I'm glad to see you're both well."

"As well as can be expected." Archibald answered with cautious attention, inspecting his three new guests. Thunder boomed outside. Drenched not only in water but blood and worse, we must have looked a fright. "I must say, we're surprised to see you again, what after the Monument's destruction and the insurrection...we were certain you'd perished. Where is your accomplice?"

"He's...otherwise occupied. I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm out of options." Realizing that I still had my weapon in hand, I set it upon a nearby table. "I'd like to introduce you to my friends. The boy's name is Freddy..." Holding close to Elizabeth, the lad didn't answer. Instead his eyes evinced only the faintest glimmer of life. "And may I introduce, Elizabeth, uh...Comstock."

Evelyn looked at her husband and brushed that disheveled hair aside. "Elizabeth... _Comstock_?" She repeated, only slowly drawing her connection with the woman. "The...daughter of the _Prophet_?" For a moment the room was filled only with distant thunder and the sound of rain upon their windows.

"My father's no _Prophet_." Elizabeth replied, quite disaffected by the thought. "Not of God, at least."

"By all that is righteous and holy, then you _are_ the _Lamb_?" Archibald practically exclaimed. Of all the people I'd encountered in Columbia, these two were the _least_ likely to misplace their faith, yet the expressions upon their face were of a man and woman in the presence of the divine. Belief, I realized, had deep fangs.

"I'm _nothing_ of the sort." Elizabeth said with a dismissive wave of hand. Eyes closed, she shook her head as if the very concept was poison. "And I'm no savior. My Father, if you can even call him _that_ , he is a liar and a murderer. He and his filth are responsible _everything_ that's transpired her in Columbia so please, do _not_ place me upon such an undeserved pedestal."

"But you _succeeded_?" Archibald said with a glance toward me, still in awe despite Elizabeth's protestation. She is who you say?!"

"Yes, but we're still here. We need to get out of Columbia...presently that's not accomplished easily. We've been through a lot."

"As have we." He stated. "And I believe after the last day _everyone_ needs to get out of Columbia, but why come to us?"

"This boy, really." I answered as the child looked up. "You might have seen him down the way in better times...he's Jeremiah Fink's son."

"Jeremiah _Fink's_ son? Evelyn questioned. " _Frederick_ Fink? Why, I thought I recognized him! His brother Albert lives just down the row!"

"Which is why we've come to you. Fink...Jeremiah Fink...the man is dead..." I sighed. "Slain by Daisy Fitzroy as was his wife. The boy's orphaned. Before we left, we...Elizabeth and I...we felt need to ensure he was safe with family. Seeing we're in demand by just about everyone here in the fair smoking city, we thought it best that someone else take him to Fink's brother. Someone we trusted." I looked at them. "That list is pretty short."

Evelyn had taken her husband's hand, hopelessly in awe of the drenched girl at my side. Archie wasn't much better, but at least he could speak. "Please. Come sit with us at least until the storm passes. Would you like something to eat?" With the both of us having not done so in a day and the boy perhaps the same, I was all too happy to assent.

"That would be kind of you." Elizabeth added.

Down a maroon carpeted hallway Montgomery's wife led our dripping selves, past walls hung with paintings and into their parlor...a chamber I'd not seen when last I'd visited. Between two white bookcases a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hung amid red drapery, the man delivering a speech. Fetching blankets for each of us, Evelyn offered us plush seats and we accepted, the boy taking a spot beside Elizabeth on a longer couch.

"President Lincoln?" Elizabeth said, brushing her wet snake of hair back.

"Yes." Evelyn responded, walking to a small table to produce a tray of hot tea. Returning to our sitting, she drew a cup for each of us. "He is our inspiration."

I couldn't help but remember the Order of the Raven's own take on the man. "Rather dangerous having such a shrine here in Columbia, don't you think?" Though I spoke, their attentions were not upon me.

"Is this at Gettysburg?" Elizabeth asked, eyes upon the work, turning toward our hosts with life I'd not seen since her evince since her dispatch of Fitzroy.

"The Emancipation Proclamation, my Dear." Evelyn answered. "Delivered nearly a year earlier. It is widely seen as being the death knell to slavery in the United States."

"But not Columbia." She followed quietly.

The Montgomerys looked to one another. "This...this is perhaps not the time to discuss politics..." Archie responded. "But no, not in Columbia. Perhaps by the letter of the law slavery has no purchase here, but amongst the Irish there is a great deal of indentured servitude. It is also well known..." He said, looking at Fink's boy. "That certain captains of industry here in the city have arrangements which have resulted in what can only be described as bondage of negroes and Indians and Chinamen."

"Slavery." Evelyn asserted assiduously before taking a draught of tea. As she sipped an explosion echoed from down the street, along with the sound of repeating gunfire amid the tempest. The combat was far enough away to be less than threatening, but near enough to dissuade contemplation of ventures into the oncoming darkness. Both Archie and I looked reflexively to our weapons. "You would do you well to wait out the storm here this evening. I was preparing a small supper for myself and Archibald, but I'll make more. Upstairs we can offer you room and a bath. Perhaps a change of clothes. It seems the three of you have need of it."

I thought of yet _another_ night trapped in Columbia, waiting for Comstock or the Vox to get lucky. "I'm afraid not." I answered. "We just came here to hand off the boy."

"And where will you go?" Archie said. Evelyn's husband had narrow gray eyes and a Romanesque nose. In disapproval a haughty air hovered about him. "The storm rages outside...surely you realize no flight shall be had to anywhere before morning at the earliest...even _if_ the Aerodrome were to reopen. If you depart in this mess, you'll not only be beset by exposure but given over to Comstock's troops. Stay with us."

I sighed, glancing toward Elizabeth. The man had a solid argument. "Very well. We appreciate the hospitality."

Evelyn's eyes had hardly varied from Elizabeth. "I...I shall fetch dinner. I shan't be long." In deference she backed away, exchanging a glance with her husband before stepping out to the kitchen.

"Elizabeth..." Montgomery said to himself, tasting the name upon his tongue. She'd weighed their adulation, for it could be called nothing short, and it made her uncomfortable. "We had...never heard your name before. To us you have only been..."

"The Lamb. Yes..." She said. "I know. As I've told you, you'd do well to dispel any notions that I am Heaven sent. I assure you I am not."

Montgomery had been leaning forward with intense interest. Having been admonished, he sat back into his high backed chair. "Miss Elizabeth...I understand and sympathize with your sentiment, but you must know that great mystery surrounds you here in the city, much myth and some truth but of which who can tell? Only you. Evelyn and I, we have lived our adult lives in Columbia only to see our dreams undone. You are perhaps the only one left to us."

As he spoke Evelyn returned to the Dining Room opposite us and began placing the table with shaky hands. "I shall bring the bread on momentarily, though I am afraid the roast will take a bit more time. I do hope there is enough. I'd only planned for two."

"Whatever you have to offer shall be more than enough, Mrs. Montgomery." Elizabeth answered with a strained smile. Evelyn Montgomery grinned, took a step back and hurried out.

"My wife...pardon her, if you will. We seldom have such company." Looking upon us, Montgomery rose. "It might be awhile before she is ready. If you shall allow me to show you to the upper quarters, I'll fetch that change of clothing and indulge you in a bath. You look as though you warrant them."

Despite the blanket and warmth of an ebbing gas fire I was still shivering. This made the prospect welcome. "If you don't mind, we'd like to remain together."

He puzzled, looking to the girl. "In the same...chamber? I could offer you adjoining rooms."

"That will do." I conceded.

#

An hour later the boy lay asleep beneath the covers of a fine bed on the Montgomery's second floor. Having freshly bathed, Elizabeth stood in Evelyn's robe at the window looking outside. I buttoned my shirt.

"They seem kind people." She said, hand upon the glass pane. Beyond it the sky was dark and wind howling. Though the rain had passed, the wind rattled and lightning still flashed in the distance. "Do you truly trust them?"

"As much as I trust anyone here. All I can really say is that they helped me get to you." Walking toward the chair, I brought a stack of clothing and pair of boots to her. "The lady left these for you. She hoped they might fit."

Unenthusiastically she held the dress up. "How do you do it?" She finally asked, voice betraying the slightest tremble. "How do you...wash away the things that you've done?"

"You don't." I answered with the close of my eyes, wishing to God that I could. For all I'd done in my life, for all of my sins and transgressions, I'd never found solace in anything or anyone. At least not for long. "You just learn to live with it." The answer didn't seem to satisfy her. "I'll step out while you change. See you downstairs with the boy?"

"I think he'll sleep. I wish I could."

"You will." I promised, drawing close to her. The rain was pattering the window and her eyes turned upward to me.

"Considering the circumstance, you look very nice, Mr. DeWitt."

I tightened my neckerchief and glanced to my reflection in the glass panes. "It will do. Will you be long?"

She shook her head. "No. I might as well get on with this disaster."

I smirked. "We'll survive."

#

When I arrived in the Dining Room below Evelyn and Archibald were waiting. At my appearance the lady seemed to approve. "Elizabeth was still dressing." I supplied. "She said she'll be down shortly." In contrast to the meager setting before, the table was now laid out elegantly with five place settings. At the center steamed a golden brown roast upon a platter, small but already sliced, complimented by side dishes of mashed potatoes, corn, greens, cornbread and a mound of butter. The smell was sumptuous, and I was famished. "This looks amazing."

Changed into a long-sleeved blue gown with hands clasped before her, Evelyn beamed. "Thank you."

I walked to the table and Archibald offered me a chair with the sweep of his hand. I drew it out, the utter insanity of the last few days a stark contrast to _this_. "Mr. DeWitt, I hope you don't mind me asking, but seeing as the radio has been blaring for two days straight of your menace to our citizenry, how is it that you've, err, managed to survive?" He offered me a cigar, which I deferred.

"I'm good at skulking about. The streets were crawling with Constabulary, and with the uprising now the Militia and Regulars are everywhere. Not to mention the damned Vox. If I'd not had the girl with me, I'd likely be dead."

"How is that so?" He asked.

Explaining Elizabeth, I realized, would be difficult. "She's...not exactly a fighter but she has a way of, uh, helping in tight spots one wouldn't expect a girl to be able to."

With a glance toward my guns and gear upon the Sitting Room table, Archie attended a silver tray of bottled libations. "Evelyn and I noticed you seem to be a might handier with the artillery than she. I can see it in you...you're a soldier, aren't you?" As he spoke, he poured a round glass with caramel liquid. "Brandy?"

"Thank you." I accepted. I swirled it in the snifter. "I was."

"Was?" He questioned, drawing his own.

"I spent a decade and a half in the Army. More than I cared to, I admit, but a man has to make a living."

"Where did you serve?"

"Served? Many places. Most dusty. Some bloody."

"Yet you survived?"

"If you can call it that, yes, I did." I took a drink...a stiff one. "If you don't mind me asking, what do you know about the Vox Populi?" I asked. "Cornelius Slate, in particular."

"Slate?" Archie questioned. "Only that there was a great stink over him and his Loyalists over these last few months. Quite an uproar in fact. Slate was a highly placed figure in the Founder Establishment, the Commander of Comstock's Regular forces and greatly esteemed by his men...well, at least until the Prophet unveiled his statue in the Hall of Heroes."

"The Hall of Heroes? That place at the Arsenal?" I asked, remembering the insult I too had miffed over.

"Yes. I must say that Evelyn and I do not run in such circles, but I heard claim that the good Colonel took issue with the Prophet's assertion that _he_ had commanded our forces during the Indian Wars and at Peking. Were you at Peking, perchance?"

"No." I answered. "But I _was_ at Wounded Knee. And Manila, for what that matters. I can assure you he weren't at neither. You know, I'd half imagined that with your sympathies we'd find Slate or Fitzroy _here_."

"I assure you that our relationship with the Vox is purely one of convenience. We abhor their manifesto, which, as you can see, has now inspired untold bloodshed."

"So who is leading them?"

"Daisy Fitzroy." Archie said, looking over the rim of his glass. "One of Comstock's former servants."

"Fitzroy is dead."

The comment stopped him mid drink. "Is she?"

I sipped mine. "She is."

He'd looked to continue his sentence but stopped before he could speak. Following his breathless gaze I turned to find Elizabeth standing at the base of the stair, hair up and dressed in Montgomery wife's hand me down. About her shoulders she wore a jacket that matched the skirt's blue, though only a blue ribbed white corset adorned her torso. Above a very bare décolletage, her neck still bore the lace I'd bought her, the diving bird pendant upon it. By her expression it was obvious she'd heard every word. Both of us rose.

"Enchanting." Montgomery observed.

Evelyn returned now, eyes beholding the newest joiner. The exposed corset seemed to give her strain. "The blouse." She said. "Oh, dear God, please forgive me, I forgot the blouse."

"It's all right." Elizabeth said, stepping forward in subdued manner. "I'd thought this very French when I put it on."

I took a stiff drink from my glass. "That's...not a bad thing. She likes France."

"You look...unbelievably lovely, my dear." Archie observed, long enough for Evelyn to deliver him a wicked elbow.

"Thank you." Elizabeth answered demurely.

"You say Fitzroy is...is dead?" He continued.

"Yes, unfortunately." I confirmed, prying my eyes away from the girl. "Slain as she went to kill the Fink boy. By my hand." At my lie Elizabeth regarded me sharply, her disbelief at my assumption of her sin immediate. The return of my eyes stilled her. "There was nothing that could be done. She was determined to kill not only the boy's parents but the child too. I wouldn't cotton it."

Evelyn stood behind her chair as Archie gestured us to join them. "Then...the Vox are now led by Slate?"

Having risen with Elizabeth's entrance, I approached her side. "Or Cade. Or no one."

"The warship that was hanging over Finkton. That's not theirs, is it?" Archie asked.

I shook my head, trying not to stare at Elizabeth. In her unassuming grace she could make the worst fashion faux pas appear as high couture. "No. It's Edmonton's."

"Your _friend_ Edmonton's?" The Montgomerys said in shock.

With her eyes upon mine, I took Elizabeth's hand and drew the chair for her. "He's not my friend. And he sure as hell isn't Columbia's."

#

"Bavarians..." Archie spat sometime later. Having regaled the Montgomerys with the tale of our last days, both he and his wife were spellbound. "At least this Cade had the decency to resist." Evelyn's cuisine was as sublime as it had looked, remarkable considering the circumstance. As we dined I began to realize that Elizabeth was taking her cues on etiquette from me...a huge mistake. Despite her troubled countenance, she'd never before dined with others and was predictably wary of the prospect. The prayer at the start had particularly been interesting.

"Why can't they leave well enough alone?" Evelyn asked from her finished plate. "They have their own country...why usurp ours?"

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I asked. "To throw off Comstock's yoke?"

"Not in this manner!" Evelyn retorted, passing the sliced roast my way. "Killing helps no one. Now there shall _never_ be peace."

"Maybe there never _was_." I took another slice of meat. "Men were kept down by force. That's not peace."

As she'd spoken, Evelyn had continued to fret over Elizabeth's exposed bosom. "I...I'm so sorry about the blouse. I thought I'd included it but...well, I'm sorry. The dress was part of your mother's collection, you know."

"My _mother's_ collection?" Elizabeth asked, looking up from a bite of potato. "I wasn't aware that my mother was such an inspiration."

"Oh, goodness, yes, bless her soul." Evelyn asserted. "She was everyone's heart when I was a girl. That was one of her favorites, and therefore of my _own_ mother's...though in a less, er, revealing manner. Mind you, it's just a reproduction."

"Thank you nonetheless." Elizabeth answered, tugging the corset slightly higher. "I never knew my mother, you know. She died when I was young." Both of them hung on Elizabeth's words like holy pronouncement, and I suppose to them they were. Recalling my words with the couple on miracles and infidelity when we first met, I found it difficult to understand this veneration.

"And your father?" Archibald asked, what answer he was searching for I had no idea.

With a glance my way Elizabeth answered. "I never saw him. Never met him. When I was younger I had tutors, so many people who attended to me. They were rather harsh and uncaring, though. They taught me to read and how to speak and dance, but as I got older their visits became fewer. I guess they were afraid of me. Eventually I was left to my own devices. I never understood why."

"They left you...left you alone there? In the tower?"

Holding a bite of roast, Elizabeth gazed at the tines of the fork protruding through, glinting sharply in the candlelight.

"And if they find us, they'll take her there again or worse." I continued "Do...you have a way we might get out of Columbia should the Aerodrome not reopen?"

Montgomery teased chin between thumb and forefinger. "There are only two ways into and out of the city, and only one reliable. That is by airship...by which we secret our friends from the city into freedom. I would say that should the Aerodrome not reopen, perhaps one of Comstock's vessels or a commandeered Vox lighter would be your best way. There is always the possibility of a boat out of Battleship Bay, but that's problematic in its own right. You'd have to brave the North Atlantic, and as this passing storm has demonstrated that is not a cheery prospect."

"Commandeering an airship...a tough nut." I said, thinking to my debacle with _Songbird_.

"If you had help, perhaps not." Archie replied. "This Cade fellow you spoke of. Or Colonel Slate...they are with the Vox and have influence."

"I don't know how much. In fact, I don't know where the Vox end now and the Bolsheviks begin. Last I saw, Slate was in a wheel chair gasping for breath."

For a moment Montgomery seemed troubled. He glanced to both of us. "There is something you should know then, both of you. An Irishman I have acquaintance to had informed me that Comstock's man Preston Downs was in league with them."

"Downs." I said, remembering the name vaguely from Slate's harangue at the Good Time Club.

"Downs is...perhaps I should say _was_ , Comstock's personal hound." Montgomery leaned forward. "At least until recently. For some reason that eludes my peers they had a terrific falling out. He hunted many an escaped bondage here in the city, and was notorious for his killing of opponents on a whim. He was, perhaps, our greatest fear. If he has turned coat, he would not do so for a paltry position nor a shallow reason. And if he holds any sway over the Vox, he likely does so with a vendetta..." He said, looking at Elizabeth. "One that might play out upon _her_ person."

"Why me?" Elizabeth asked, dragged out of introspection.

"Because he cannot get at the Old Man. He can, however, get at what the Old Man _loves_...or at least values. That is you. Were he seeking vengeance, this Cade you place your hopes upon might be hard pressed to lend aid."

"The way I look at it, we don't have much of a choice, do we? We're on Emporia and plum out of allies. Cade's it."

"Then it is settled. After we return the boy tomorrow, it seems we'll need to find you a way back to Finkton."

#

"You were awfully quiet down there." I said later as I turned down the bed upstairs. The night had not started auspiciously and it ended less so, with Elizabeth distant and me ill at ease. With the lot of us exhausted, Archie had agreed to keep a watch in the parlor while his wife and guests slept. As Elizabeth had figured, the boy was fast asleep.

"Killing someone has a tendency to do that to oneself." She whispered. Sitting upon the covers next to the sleeping child, she covered a yawn. "I can only imagine how he feels. He's barely said a word."

I looked at the pair, then out the window towards the smatter of lights that adorned Emporia's darkened rag of skyline. "He'll survive. I did. You're not responsible for Daisy, Elizabeth. You only did what you had to do.

"But she's _dead_." She suddenly heaved. " _I_ killed her."

"And the kid's _alive_. He's still breathing because of _you_. How many people had Daisy killed? How many more _would_ she have?" I sat her down beside me and her eyes, blue as the sky itself, turned up to mine. "I...I'm sorry it happened." For a moment we sat upon the edge of the bed next to one another. I wiped her cheek and she snuffed. "I'm sorry so many things have happened."

"Tell me about Wounded Knee." She whispered. "Why you don't want to talk about it?"

Now it was my turn for silence. "It's best you don't know any more than I already told you." I finally said, thrown back to somewhere I did not want go.

"Booker...please. I _have_ to know. I have to know that I'm...I'm not alone in this."

 _This_ , I assumed, meant blood upon her hands. Thinking about what she'd said, I realized that was exactly what I had been all of these years...alone.


	18. Chapter 18 Ghosts of Garryowen

**18\. Ghosts of Garryowen**

The rumor about the campfire was that Miles had not intended Sitting Bull be killed but it had happened nonetheless, the fabled Indian Chief who'd presided over Custer's destruction dead two weeks before at Standing Rock. Whether murder by the Sioux Indian police or a lucky 'incident', an impediment to the Army's pacification of the west had been removed. It had not had the anticipated effect.

Throughout the summer of 1890 tensions between the white settlers and Indians had been running high across the new Dakotas, inflamed by a medicine man with a vision. A year before the Paiute shaman named Wovoka had taken to teaching what he called the Ghost Dance not just to his own but many native peoples across the West. Consisting of singing, prayer, dancing, prayer and even more dancing, the ceremony was supposed to rid the continent of whites, restore the buffalo and last in that blizzard of improbabilities raise the Indian dead. Amongst the desperate and starving tribes who had been forced onto reservation land after decades of worthless treaties, the teaching had spread like wildfire. Sitting Bull's death had done little to calm the sentiment.

At the time I was nearly seventeen, freshly joined to the Army and fabled Seventh Cavalry at Fort Riley with barely a hair upon my chin. In my recruitment Sergeant Vessey had accepted my age without question, for I was a strapping young lad with a hard temperament sprouted from a rearing on the plains. Though some of the men with keener eyes and less incentive to fill quotas had raised an eyebrow at my induction, I had nonetheless donned the blue as a Private. Word had come late that fall of this unrest up north, followed by pleas from the Agent at Pine Ridge for immediate Army intervention. As the fire danced and crackled orange before us, we'd been at the Agency for a month...and Wounded Knee Post Office for but a handful of hours.

"So now that Whitside's nabbed Big Foot, how soon you think we'll be heading back to Rushville?" I asked, wondering how these matters resolved themselves for cavalrymen afield. From the scuttlebutt in camp Indian uprisings were seldom short and often ended violently, but the ragged band who'd ridden in last night hadn't seemed to have much fight in them. Unlike some of the other men I wasn't itching for a one...particularly of the Custer variety.

"Not for a spell, and by that lousy journey up from Riley, hopefully never. I'd rather head all the way up over to Rapid City and catch the long train from there than head south again on that Union Pacific claptrap." Sergeant Slate grumbled, glancing to the East and the myriad glimmering lights of the old Chieftain's Miniconjou camp. Unlike me, Slate was no new face to the Cavalry. Sporting a goatee beard, broad mustache and heavy shock of black hair, he seemed to exemplify the Seventh on the frontier, with a stern gaze and rugged build, skin pale as the winter bleached hills we camped along. Holding his stick amid the circling flame until its point glowed, he continued with it held at a cant toward the Indian encampment. "Besides, unless he and his band hand over them weapons in the morrow, there's gonna be a brew. I sure hope they don't have fight in 'em."

"That's always the sticker, ain't it?" One of the Corporals said, a man named Denver. "All fine an good until you ask 'em to hand over the guns. Then it's _always_ a fight."

"How would you figure if some'un asked you to surrender _your_ most valuable property?" Slate responded. "The thing that kept you and your kin alive? They don't hunt for sport, you know...they hunt to feed their families an' with the Buffalo hunted out, that's slim pickings."

"Don't the Agency give them cattle and rations and blankets?" I asked, having myself distributed the latter to the hungry refugees but hours before. Of my own slim slice of beef the fire had almost had its way.

"They do." Slate answered, pulling his own sizzled portion from the crackling blaze. "When we rode them 18 miles up from Nebraska a month ago, you remember that shootin'?" I nodded, hearing again in my mind the eastern gunfire that had so put our squadron on edge. "Injuns killed them cattle just as soon as they got 'em from the government. Didn't have the good sense to let 'em breed an make more meat...just shot 'em dead right there and cut 'em up."

"Maybe they'd starving mouths to feed." I answered, remembering my own hungry winters down south. "Awfully cold here and the _Farmer's_ said its gonna be a hard season." About the fire everyone looked at me and not in a sympathetic way.

Slate took a bite on the blade of his knife. "Could be so. You're DeWitt, ain't you?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I said, uneasy at being called out amongst the troop. "Private DeWitt."

"What is that, German or French?"

"Don't rightly know, Sergeant." I answered, remembering nothing said about the matter by either my father or mother. They'd been hard people, shy on emotion and weathered by the difficult life they'd chosen. "My family been on the Kansas for a couple dozen years, north before that."

"Up here, eh?"

"You mean in the Dakota?" I asked, uncertain as to his intent. A breeze caught the flame, blowing it toward the man.

Slate smirked maliciously as he drew back, rows ivory pristine beneath that bush. "When Vessey inducted you this summer down at Riley, he said you came from a bunch of trappers...folk that worked the Missouri for years until it went empty and stuck you on the farm near Riley. You got kin here?"

My teeth clenched as anger set into my bones. _If I were a bettin' man, I'd guess your family tree shelters a teepee or two, doesn't it, son?_ Vessey had joked. "No, Sir. I do not. Least not no more." I answered sternly. Now as then, there was plenty of chuckling at my expense. Men's faces looked from back from the campfire ring.

"It's the cheekbones, you know...makes a man think. But those blue eyes..." Slate continued. "Makes me wonder whether they was your mother's...or your father's."

As he continued his impeachment of my pedigree a soldier named Berry wandered in from adjacent campfire, either calamity or mischief in his eyes. "Sergeant Slate..." He said breathlessly as two men followed from the windswept darkness. "Corporal Phillips says that some of his boys went off to grab Big Foot out of his tent and show him a lesson."

Slate glanced upward and finished his chunk of charred beef. "That would be highly unadvisable. Were they caught, I doubt Big Foot's bucks would take too kindly to it. Call 'em off."

"Sergeant, they've already set to it." Berry answered nervously. By his reaction to Slate's response, I wondered if he'd in actuality been looking for _more_ conspirators.

"Then get 'em back here pronto." Having finished his meal, Slate rose and brushed his leggings. "And the rest of you, to your watch or tents. Tomorrow's an early rise and there's liable to be trouble, so get what sleep you can."

With the campfire's warmth now uncomfortable I headed back to our tent, careful to avoid the numerous stakes and taut rope lines amid the starless high plains night. The wind caught the tent flap wide as I entered, revealing Del Lamar's tired face quartered amid a tightly drawn bed roll.

"Shut the damned flap, jackass." Del cursed half-consciously as the biting wind found its way inside. Unsteadily my hands gained hold of the tent's fabric and pulled its rope tie shut.

"Sorry, Del." I said quietly, accidentally kicking the butt of his Springfield with the clumsy placement of my boot. Deftly I caught it in hand before it clattered to the ground or, Heaven forbid, went off. I arrayed mine beside it. Finding our mutual lantern hung amid the tent's height with the sweep of my hand, I turned the flame up, seeing in its flicker my breathe heavy in the air.

With Del quiet once more I looked to my own bedding and shed my boots. It was nearly as cold inside the canvas as out, but at least the wind was broke. Undoing my navy overcoat, I found even the still air bracing. Against its sting I hung it and my shirt upon a tent hook, followed by powder blue breeches. Clad only in my flannels and pair of clammy socks, I crawled into the scant warmth of my blankets.

I lay eyes wide then, shivering, before turning the light down to an amicable darkness. Outside the wind sang eerily through the ropes and my edgy ears strained, wondering if it were just the stays or the distant song of dancing braves. My back and muscles ached against the day's riding and labor. The frozen ground did little to ease my pains.

"You best not let 'em get to you, boy." Del mumbled in the resumed dark. "They get their jollies when they rile you."

"Rile me?" I asked after a moment, still brooding over the slight.

"I he'erd 'em talkin' out there. 'Bout you're parentage."

"You think I'm 'n Injun, too?" I huffed.

"No, boy..." Lamar exhaled heavily in the nearby gloom. "But not everyone know Sioux."

"I don't know no Sioux." I responded after a windswept pause.

"Then how you talk to them boys earlier tonight tossin' out them feedbags, eh? Seemed they had a might startled look when you went to yappin'."

Having not realized he'd heard my discourse with Two Branches and his mates, I found myself for a moment at a loss for words. "I just repeated what I heard Wells sayin'."

"Awful good repeatin'." Lamar said and rolled over. I lay there afterward, listening to the wind and remembering my Grandfather's words. He was gone now, passed away near a decade before. Unlike my Father he'd taken a shine to me, and for that I'd loved him as no other. Alone he'd told me my story and that of his father's people, proud that somehow a sliver of them might continue through me. I'd only begun to realize too late that others considered that striking man something lesser...and by association considered _me_ something lesser.

#

Reveille woke us before daybreak, echoing across the frosted grass of the hillocks and ravine that led north to Wounded Knee Creek. Lamar and I were slow to rise, spurred by Slate's call moments later. Following a quick dress, made hastier by the bone chill that permeated that tent, we emerged to muster northeast of our camp about welcome fires. We were still warming ourselves and hoping for breakfast when Slate came by and marshalled us into line.

I'd been thinking he'd have us off for the horses back at the camp, but it was obvious from the Sergeant's orders that wasn't the plan. Growling stomachs now denied, the murmurs of my fellow troops were broken only by the trot of the Lieutenant's passing horse. A bugle called now a second time, this one for the Indians. I gripped my weapon tightly in my hands. Across the encampment men's breath rose steadily into the crisp morning air.

During the night another hundred or so troops had ridden in, rounding our number out to near five hundred, and as the sun rose slowly to the east beneath a bracing blue sky I could see their number. We were near the Council, a meeting place set up between our camp and the Indians, while mounted troops to the east, south and west blocked any escape for Big Foot's band. Behind us to our right upon an overlooking northwestern hilltop a contingent manned four Hotchkiss repeating cannon, barrels trained ominously upon the Sioux encampment. About a quarter mile west the creek ran south to north, shrouded here and there by clumps of brush and the occasional sad tree.

At the Post Office, Wounded Knee road took a hard bend south, splitting from its northeastern spur that led on up to Porcupine miles distant. Along that southern trace the Seventh and Sioux had set our camps, just to the east of what the men called the 'Agency Road,' a path that sat in the shadow of the now cannon-dotted hillock. Just south of our encampment where another road joined from the west, Bigfoot's people had set up camp, teepees which still issued smoke. Unlike the rest of the Seventh, which now fenced the shallow valley in dark blue lines, the Indians were slow in rising.

"Here they come." Del muttered beneath his breath, words clouding the air before him. From Big Foot's camp at first I saw one or two heads, then a dozen. Curious at our noise they approached the council site, and as they did so I could see their surly and sullen faces. Wells called out to them to join his party but instead, having now seen the armed ranks arrayed about them, they retired to their camp.

"Where are they going, blast it!?" Forsythe shouted from beside the fires, grey mustache and goatee turned against a great brown fur coat.

Wells looked to him. "Sir, it appears back to their camp."

"Well, tell them to get back here. Tell them that this is _not_ voluntary." Wells shouted as such but the Indians continued their retreat. Del and I were looking to one another, as were most of the men in our line. Like me many were hardly more than boys.

After a half hour of ignored orders and pleas, Forsyth finally went to Big Foot's himself. A tent had been pitched near the intended Council between our two camps for the Old' Chief's comfort and treatment, and when he was brought forth I saw why. He was in dire shape, thin and ill, once red skin pale. I couldn't help but think about the man who'd come to the fire the night before, and if their intended hijinks might have contributed to his sorry state. It was cruel to bring the poor old Chief out like that but it had the desired effect. Having kept a wary eye upon us, the Sioux men were slowly drawn northward across the road into the Council. Still they paid little attention as Wells spoke, talking amongst themselves, not listening to the purpose of the meet. Seeing little was happening, for a second time many turned to return to the village. Forsyth was having none of it and set his troopers on them.

Down the line I heard the Lieutenant barking something at Slate, who then yelped out commands to bring us forward. Along with K Troop he deployed us just north of westbound road, between the village and the Council, weapons at the ready. Soon it was _our_ turn with the bucks.

They approached with angry eyes, breath misting the cold air. Though we stood in close order with weapons at the ready, a handful of them tried to breach us, one of them Two Branches. As he approached Kellum to my right I shook my head and told him to stay back, that we couldn't let them pass. He turned to look at me then spat. One of his mates came face to face with Lamar, stopped only by Del's hard look. Scuffles ensued as the braves tried to pass.

"I have been ordered by higher authority to secure your arms!" Forsyth shouted in English, Wells faithfully reiterating his words in Lakota. "But I assure you that the government of the United States will deal fairly and kindly with your people!" The bucks, if they'd even paid attention, scorned him.

Speaking as I did their tongue, I could hear the warriors' bitter pronouncements...their heated words. How could they expect them to survive without their hunting rifles? The winter was cold and going to get worse. It was always that same, said Two Branches to the face of a blue eyed trooper who hadn't a clue as to what he was saying. Take what they want and leave the People with _nothing_. As he pushed Kellum blocked his passage with a sideways rifle, and in doing so I noticed two branches apparel. Beneath his heavy blanket he wore an odd shirt, needle worked buckskin that though thin he seemed to have utmost confidence in for his protection. As he talked to his fellows I realized that they somehow believed that by these shirts they would elude our bullets.

Until then I thought Lamar and I had been lucky, ending up close enough to hear Forsyth and see the action. Big Foot spoke. "Go to the camp and bring weapons for the white's Chief." At his pronouncement the bucks nearest him turned back in astonishment. Soon a handful, obviously against their will, marched back to the encampment with the eyes of their women and children looking on. Minutes later a few broken and worthless guns were brought north from the village.

Forsyth was not pleased.

"Chief Big Foot, you know that this is _not_ the sum of your weapons! I have been ordered by my superiors to disarm your band, and in this matter I have no choice. Tell your braves to fetch the remainder of the firearms in your camp and hand them over. Then we shall be finished!"

Big Foot wheezed against the deep cough emanating from his chest, eyes barely open. "Colonel Forsyth..." He replied. "My people have no more guns. You're bluecoats burned them when we were upon the Cheyenne River a month ago. How can we give you that which we do not have?"

By now Forsyth was livid, for I saw his silver mustache twitching...always a bad sign. He had a right to be...upon Whitside's interception the day before, the Indians had _all_ been seen armed to the teeth. "Major Whitside!" He shouted.

"Sir." With a drawn face and mustache, the cavalry officer turned.

"Have the village searched for serviceable arms! Engage Captains Varnum and Wallace to ensure the detail done!"

Whitside saluted sharply. "Yes, sir! Captain Varnum, Captain Wallace...prepare B and K Troops to move on the Indian camp."

Varnum, my commander, had halted from his patrol of the line just to my right. With a salute he turned to his Lieutenant and Sergeants. "B Troop, prepare to advance in twos into the village and search each teepee and structure for concealed arms. Leave no stone unturned!" Downline Slate repeated the order, and in pairs we moved out on foot, weapons at the carry. The plan was for us to hit the village's northwestern flank and meet Wallace's troops at the center. As we entered the teepees amid hostile eyes, it was obvious that the Indians had expected this search.

Rummaging through several teepees upon the camp flanks with meager results, I eventually noticed a squaw sitting upon the ground with her clothes spread out more than usual. She would not get up when I asked her to stand, instead giving us a hateful stare that both angered me and cut me to the core. Palmer and Rudds had to take the woman by the arms to dislodge her. Now upon her feet but still squirming, her absence enlightened us to two guns that had been secreted beneath canvas. After our find, I caught Palmer's eyes eating into me and realized I'd spoken to the woman without thinking...again in Sioux.

Underneath nearly every squaw and child afterward we found some sort of weapon but I was preoccupied. Despite my discovery my _own_ people had taken to looking at me like I was some enemy and continued to do so. Wasn't I wearing the same coat as they? Despite our discovery the number of knives, war clubs and guns taken from the village still was less than expected.

After our reassembly at the Council circle, Colonel Forsyth looked at the still meager findings. "Chief Big Foot...we can all see here that you have not been telling the truth, and as we all saw yesterday upon your arrival your braves were all well-armed! You must comply with the orders of the United States government to surrender your arms completely!"

"Colonel Forsyth..." Big Foot coughed. "I have told you we have few arms. They were taken from us and destroyed upon the Cheyenne."

Having given the old man the benefit of the doubt earlier, Forsyth was doing so no more. By now every place had been searched except the persons of the bucks. "Major Whiside, take B and K to form a cordon between here and the village!"

Whitside turned, commanded Varnum and Wallace to move us. Slate turned. "C'mon boys, let's light a fire!" Soon we were in position as Forsyth commanded...between the bucks and their families. It was about half past nine o'clock in the morning, when Forsythe gave the order to have the Indians return to their village by passing through us. Tensions had be rising, tempers flaring. The Medicine Man of their band near Forsyth had embarked upon an almost continuous song as we'd moved into cordon. Now, however, his tone changed. With the search imminent he'd begun to incite his fellows, declaring to them that he'd lived long enough, meaning in the Sioux that he would fight until he died.

Turning to the young warriors who were squatted together, he shouted, "Do not fear! Let your hearts be strong! Many soldiers are about us and have many bullets, but I am assured their bullets cannot penetrate us! The prairie is large, and their bullets will fly over the prairies and will not come toward us. If they do come toward us, they will float away...like dust in the air!"

He'd spoken in Sioux so it was to most of the Army men it was gibberish, but beside an uneasy Forsyth, Wells apparently had caught the gist...and the danger. "He's trying to get them to fight!" He said with some concern to the Colonel, whose normally unflappable expression for a moment turned dire.

"Well, tell him to sit and be silent, and do it now!" Forsyth commanded.

To my right Del had grown nervous. "Watch out. There's gonna be a problem here." I whispered.

"What is it?" Del asked, eyeing both me and the fantastically painted medicine man in equally dubious fashion.

"Feathers over there is tellin' em to fight." By then the medicine man had finally completed his circle and sat, though with venomous eyes. A Catholic priest from the agency, whose name I'd not heard, had also understood the man's words. Going between the Indians, he tried again and again to calm them, to dispense with the fury rising in their hearts.

"Wells..." Forsyth commanded.

"Sir?" The interpreter asked.

"Have the Indians return to their huts through our lines."

"Yes, Sir." He wheeled about. "You are to move to your homes now. You will be searched!"

Half a dozen of the older Indians passed reluctantly through our gauntlet first and we began to pat them down, searching beneath their blankets. Down the line I heard Slate exclaim, 'There goes an Indian with a gun under his blanket!'

With a stern face Forsyth spun. "Well, then disarm the bastard!"

As two troopers wrestled him for the weapon, the kid shouted in Lakota that 'he'd paid a lot for it and wasn't about to hand it over!'

Whether Wells told Forsyth that detail, I don't know, for things got fast and furious then. In frustration Whitside shouted to Wells, 'Tell the Indians it is necessary that they be searched one at a time!'

My eyes had been upon Feathers, who reached down to the ground and shouted, "Ha Ha!" with a cast of dust into the air. All at once five or six young bucks cast off their blankets and brandished guns in the air. Captain Varnum, though some distance away, shouted, "Look out! They've broken!" A shot went off into our line. Suddenly orders were being shouted and we were firing point blank into one another.

As I brought my rifle to block the shot of a brave, I saw Feathers come down on the interpreter with the gleaming point of a sharpened knife. Blood flew as he cut across the Wells' face, leaving him screaming with his nose nearly severed. With the flesh hanging from his face, Wells swung his rifle upward and knocked Feathers back. His gun went off, blowing a hole through Feathers' chest that left laid out stone cold dead upon the ground.

Every buck that had 'em was now firing their rifles without restraint, while the rest tried for the weapon piles or lacking arms broke for the village...which meant us. As I returned fire the armed ones amongst them continued to do the same. Behind me I heard the screams of women and children, victims of their own men's missed shots. Before the general fray I'd notice the squaws and children saddling ponies, hitching their teams and loading considerable stores in their wagons. Now they'd leapt into those wagons and were high tailing it out, taking the old road along the base of the hill on which the artillery was located. I didn't blame them.

With our line encompassed in smoke but unbroken, the remaining bucks seemed to scatter about our flanks, desperate to follow their families. Some that had been unable to reach the old road crossed a deep ravine which was the southern limit of the flat. Slate wheeled us back to the hill. Varnum, marching before us, motioned with saber toward the fleeing braves. "B Troop...stand ready to fire! FIRE!" Freshly reloaded we commenced firing, great clouds of smoke rising from the surviving men alongside me and Wallace's line too. Above on the hill the Hotchkiss guns joined in to lethal effect.

Ahead of us round after round tore into the encampment, into the grounds surrounding it, exploding shrapnel everywhere. Smoke began to rise and screams issue from the pall, the sounds of the dead and dying everywhere. With all the gunfire the camp and area of the broken council was awash with smoke and dust, making it hard to see anything but darting shadows. Looking to my side, I was shocked to sight Del clutching at his neck upon the ground, throat shot.

As the line continued to unload upon the fleeing Sioux I dove to his aid...but it was clear even then there was nothing to be done. He clutched at my collar, glaring at me, steam rising off the roil of life spurting from his jugular. Amid the roar of the cannons above he stilled, eyes grown glassy beneath the azure firmament. I'd never seen a man die before.

He wouldn't be my last.

For the next five minutes the gunfire continued around me, and though I was there I was not. All the while the rest of our men and the other troops had dismounted and were sharpshooting the last of the fleeing bucks. Finally I got my wits about me and began looking for payback. Perhaps a hundred feet away I saw Forsyth now, down at Wells' side, pointing with his pistol towards an area of heavy brush down the ravine and ordering C, D, G to give pursuit. "Kill the men and capture the women and children!" He shouted. Eagerly his commanders complied and they set off in a gallop.

"Mother of Jesus." Slate said as he emerged from the smoke looking at me and gathering the survivors of our troop about him. He stopped to look at Del Lamar's cooling corpse. "All right men, we've got orders. We are to move out and reconnoiter the Indian encampment for survivors." A gunshot went off from the murky smoke in that direction, drawing our eyes. More came from the distance. "K's Captain Wallace is dead. This is a grim spot and I want you to understand...no men are to be left alive. Colonel Forsyth's orders. Am I understood!?" We all nodded and began to march in line towards the smoke bound village.

With Del murdered I was in no mood for doing anything else, and as we crossed the remains of our former line we found our men's bodies...men like Del I'd _known_ , my fury only rose. Not only had we been attacked, but I'd frozen in the middle of it all...something I could not forgive myself for. Palmer was beside me now, and it was clear in that unspoken language of soldiers neither of us were looking for anything other than evening the scales.

Teepees began to pass to our left and right as we marched. Amid the thick waft of burnt powder I heard a wailing, the four of us stopped before one of the few standing teepees. I circled its perimeter while the others went round the other way, the four of us converging before its entrance. Before us on the ground, body half outside of the tent flap, was an old man. A dead old man sprawled face first, his body still steaming. He'd been shot bad, and blood was still oozing from his mouth.

Palmer gritted his teeth...parted the flaps to the cries of two women and a child, all bloody, their clothes and bodies shredded most likely by the now stilled Hotchkiss fire. Somehow they were still alive. For one woman and the baby it was apparent they wouldn't be much longer. The woman, though, the one who'd been wounded and was wailing upon the buffalo skins, looked up at me and Palmer, at the other two troopers who'd followed us in.

"You goddammed bitch!" He shouted and struck her with the butt of his rifle, silencing her wails and sprawling her to the ground. Angry as I was, I was shocked, particularly when his Bowie knife came out. "You're gonna pay for what you lyin' kin done!"

"What you looking at, boy?" One of the men said from behind me in a thick German accent, a man I knew as Corporal Shroeder. Brown haired with a thin chin beard and angry gray eyes, he sidled up to me with raised pistol, even as the mortally wounded squaw struggled to shield her stilled papoose from the man's impending retribution. "Why don ya ask 'em if they got more guns? Of if they knew their menfolk were gonna bushwhack us?"

I realized then that all of them were looking at me, every living and dead eye under the roof. I was full of anger and fear and even more so _hate_. "Time you choose, boy." Palmer said, handing me the knife. "You with them...or us?" As I stood there contemplating the steel's sheen I heard a pained moan to my left, turned to see Palmer's wild glance back at the women. Reluctantly I took the blade in hand. It quivered before me. Palmer looked back, out into the daylight. "Hoff's comin', long with his bearers! It's now or never!"

"Do it!" This other man said, keeping watch at the entrance.

"You 'member what they done to _Custer_ , boy. Now's your chance to show 'em what for." From the side of my face he peered at me, dissecting my very soul. "Or you rather be fornicatin' with _'em_ staid o' killin' 'em?'" After a moment my eyes turned from his to the metal, spying the dying woman and her sister above its length. I gripped it in hand.

Then took a step forward.

#

"What...what did you do?" Elizabeth asked, the softness of her soprano breaking the patter of wind upon the windows. Though I didn't realize it I'd been talking for some time. Now the only light coming in was from the handful of nearby house lamps and distant fireworks.

"I killed them." I said, forcing myself to utter the words. "I put the knife to their throats and opened them wide. For one...for her it was a mercy. The kid was dead and she was peppered with shot. But the other..." Still after all these years the squaw's eyes came to me, like mine improbably blue. Like Elizabeth's. "I killed her...then scalped them both."

"Booker..." She whispered, face aghast.

"You weren't...wrong about me being a monster. None of them, not even poor, dead Del, not Vessey...not since he'd humiliated me had any of them ever truly called me a comrade. It was only after I killed the women and...only after I...burnt their teepees to the ground they took me as one of their own."

"You...burned the..."

"Teepees. That one...others. As many as I could find whether there were people in 'em or not. We said it was because Big Foot's holdouts were shooting at us but on that one, the first, it to conceal what we'd done. What _I'd_ one. Thing is..." I chuckled morbidly, still looking at my hand. "Palmer just wanted me to knife 'em to show I could. I thought the slit throat and scalping bit up all on my own."

For a moment there was only the wind until a distant explosion rattled the rain dotted windows. "I...don't expect you to understand." I continued, hands clasped, looking at my feet. "And I don't expect you to forgive me."

"They forced you to..." She added in a whisper.

"They forced me to do _nothing_." I grated through clenched teeth. I closed my eyes. "I killed them same as I shot down their men... _worse_ than I killed their men." Upon my shoulder I felt her touch, Elizabeth's fingertips upon my sleeve. "I begged God to forgive me for years, but could never forgive myself. I guess some sins can't be washed away."

Unexpectedly she took me into her arms, cheek next to mine. I opened my eyes, seeing in hers the blue of a chill Dakota morning. She looked down at her hands, hands which I now noticed were scrubbed very clean. I'd noticed her washing them earlier...again and again. "Booker...please."

"Please what?"

"Don't believe that. You mustn't believe that." She whispered. "For my sake."


	19. Chapter 19 The Magic Goes Away

**19\. The Magic Goes Away**

Our chamber was dark when we woke the next morning and, considering the tumult of the last days, uncharacteristically quiet. As I became aware of a grim light eking from the shuttered windows, I lifted my sleep encrusted eyes to find Elizabeth in my arms. She was turned away from me, hair upon her cheek. The boy was still sleeping, occasionally with a start. I could only imagine what nightmares tortured his slumber.

"Elizabeth." I whispered, nudging her upon the shoulder. To my gentle roust she moaned, brushed tendrils from her face and curled further into the white slip of feather pillow. I rolled my eyes and spoke more insistently. " _Elizabeth!"_ She took in a sudden draw of air.

"Booker?" She said, only slowly realizing where she was. Glancing about, she levered herself up and rolled to me, leaving us face to face. "I...I dreamt..." She looked to the windows. "Of a bird, only it wasn't a bird it was that..."

"Shhh..." I whispered, touching her lips with my fingertip. "It's later than it looks and the house is too quiet."

Pressing backward upon her elbows she too examined the room. "I thought the Montgomerys were supposed to wake us then take the boy?"

"They were. I need you to watch him while I go check. Maybe it was a long night."

As I rose she extricated herself from the covers. "He'll be fine. I'll go with you."

"Elizabeth, please..."

Donning loaned slippers she joined me in her nightgown, handing me my gun's shoulder strap holster and as I put it on the Broadsider. "You might as well get used to this, Mr. DeWitt..." She said, shoving the gun into its slot. "Like I said last night, we're in this together." She turned to retrieve the Triple R, examining its chamber before loading a fresh magazine. Satisfied, she handed it to me with a dubious glance to my attire. "Do you always sleep fully clothed?"

I met her eyes before checking the weapon. "When people who want to kill us might burst in? Occasionally." I looked to the kid and tossed the pillow at him, causing him to stir.

"Booker!" She exclaimed, but the lad turned to face us.

"Kid, time to get up. We have to get moving."

"Nanny?" He said with a jolt, pushing himself upright from the plush chair he'd slept in. "Mrs. Marsdon?"

Her gaze excoriated me before she knelt at his side. "No, Freddy. It's me, Elizabeth, and Mr. DeWitt. We're taking you back to your Uncle this morning. Can you get ready?"

Still rubbing his eyes, the little blond boy turned to her. Upon his face I could see the memories of the previous days return. Elizabeth took him in her arms, whispering that he was safe with us...that we'd get him home. How she could be so certain of that I wasn't privy, but when she went to let him go he clung. I suppose that was a good sign.

"You need to get dressed." I said to them both and stepped to the door. "I'll be right back."

Down the stairs an eerie quiet prevailed. I made my way to the Montgomery's master bedchamber with the repeating rifle drawn. Receiving no reply to my gentle knock, I swung the twin doors inward to reveal a half made, unoccupied canopy bed. Like our rooms the chamber's shutters were drawn. It was the same with the bath and as I stalked down the last flight of steps with the weapon, I heard a noise descending from behind. At the red carpeted landing above Elizabeth appeared, jacket in one hand, boy in other. The corset she'd been bequeathed the night before was still visibly undone at its back.

"Dammit, I told you to stay back!"

She ignored me and turned her unlaced shoulders my way. "Help me with this, will you?" In frustration I shoved the Triple R into the wide eyed Fink boy's hands. Taking her lace in fingertips, I drew it taught from top to bottom with intentional force, causing the girl to catch in her breath with a jolt.

"Not so...hard." She winced.

"I told you to stay behind. How can I keep you safe if you follow me ev..."

"We're in this _together_." She reiterated as I finished. Turning to face me, she handed me another magazine for the Triple R. Suspiciously I took it from her, wondering where they hell she'd come up with this one. It too was full. "Or wasn't I clear enough?"

"What's clear is that you're going to freeze to death in that." I muttered as I secured her find in my pocket, trying to keep my thoughts off her modest but well-formed endowment.

"It's not like I have many other options." She whispered, drawing the jacket about her shoulders as the boy supervised.

With careful placement of feet I descended the remaining stairs, setting foot upon the Drawing Room's red carpet. Swinging into the kitchen ahead of them, I found breakfast set but unserved, four empty plates with platters of eggs and bacon steaming. As I passed them for the Dining Room, I appropriated a slab of golden toast and dropped some bacon on it. The boy did the same. With toast in mouth I smirked and gave him the nod, much to Elizabeth's consternation. Shortly the famished devil was scarfing down bread and butter, the two of us with locked eyes in some sort of undeclared race.

" _Mr. Montgomery?"_ Elizabeth sang out, craning her head backward up the staircase and about the lower living quarters. Her words echoed the floor and shook me out of my impromptu buffet.

"Elizabeth?" I heard from the Foyer in half whisper. About the corner backpedaled a terror stricken Evelyn, finger to her lips, motioning us to remain silent. "Vox!" She whispered. I hefted my weapon and strode past her for the windows. It was gloomy outside, and the windows thick at their bottoms with condensation. The curtains were drawn, but with a slender finger our host drew one back. In the street beyond the trolley stop I could see ragtag men zagging the streets, weapons ready.

"Where's your husband?" I asked? "I thought he was going to take the kid to Fink's?"

"He _was_..." She retorted. "But he was afraid of what he might find and went ahead to divine the situation. That was an _hour_ ago but...but he hasn't come back!"

"Fink's is just down the street, what, maybe an eighth of a mile?"

"That's what worries me so." She said, eyes following the red banner ruffians as they disappeared down toward the Station. "What if something happened?"

"Did you hear any gunshots?"

She shook her head. "It's been unearthly quiet this morning, ever since the fog set in."

Glancing toward Elizabeth, I realized she was thinking the same as I. "Every time we stick our necks out like this Paris gets a little farther away. Maybe a lot farther away."

"If we don't, then what are we?"

"Alive." I answered. Seeing that she didn't appreciate my sincerity, I relented. "Okay, but we do this _my_ way. No one knows you're here and we're gonna keep it that way. I'll run the boy down to Fink's. When I get back, we go. Got it?"

"But Booker..."

"I am _NOT_ risking you." My intensity seemed to cow her and I leaned into her confidence. "If this is a trap, I want you well clear of it."

"And what if you get _killed_!?" She anguished, eyes upon mine. I realized in that moment she'd taken my hand.

"I won't and I need you safe. And that _isn't_ about New York."

" _Please, Mr. DeWitt..._ d _on't leave me alone!_ " Those damned eyes had me, and I realized that more so than even death or the tower it was _that_ thought that terrified her. Evelyn, I realized, was not enough, remembering how despondent she'd looked before I'd spirited her from that place. How she'd looked at me. Like a branch I'd been offered to her, held from the bank of a stream before an infinite waterfall. One chance and one hope of salvation. "Evelyn, we're going to get Archie and will be back shortly."

Montgomery's wife covered her mouth, on the verge of tears. "I'm coming too." I glared at her but Elizabeth's protest had unlocked her own will. Two women and a kid...we were certain to be rolled up.

"All right, have it your way but you do _exactly_ as I say.

"Yes, Mr. DeWitt." The women said in concert.

I rolled my eyes. "Come on."

#

With a draw of the Montgomery House's double doors I'd peered outward onto Market Street, finding the Vox moved on and the brick street damp and empty. I pressed Evelyn to take the Broadsider but she shook her head no. I already knew Elizabeth's mind on the matter. I sighed and I tucked it back in the holster.

The smell of burnt wood hung in the air but with the fog shrouding, it was hard to discern a source, near or far. Alley to alcove we made our way down the boulevard, the women and boy behind me. From nearly every establishment awnings hung to the ground, fabric shredded and limp in the storm's wake. Beneath them windows were broken and stores looted. Occasionally the odd contortion of a corpse presented itself...men and women, boys and girls. None had been spared.

Elizabeth did her best to shield Freddy's eyes, who after a day had yet to utter a complete sentence. I knew _exactly_ what he was feeling. Of the handful of buildings that had electricity, their signs flickered or sparked from stray gunfire.

"This is horrible." Elizabeth whispered, holding my sleeve by the elbow. In a start we all turned our heads toward distant gunfire, a series of reports muffled by the mist. Gently I removed her hand and sheltered her, Evelyn and the boy in an alley.

After a few moments wait I led us forward, coming upon an automobile smoldering in the street. Beneath it vestiges of gasoline flickered from a ruptured fuel tank. Soon we came across another similarly mangled, the drivers still in their seats. Their faces were shredded, not only by the impact but by bullets. Flies buzzed about their lifeless corpses.

"Nice of everyone here to come out and help." I said, fighting the urge to look away.

"How could they?" Evelyn answered, gesturing toward a nearby alleyway. "Everyone's terrified and hiding behind locked doors. The Vox were shooting anyone they happened upon, and later anyone they missed was caught in the Columbian Guard's counterattack."

"How much further?" I asked, peering into the murk.

"Not far. There's a trolley stop up ahead beyond that arch. _Magical Melodies_ is a stone's throw from it."

" _Magical Melodies_?"

"Mr. Fink's store."

#

 _Albert Fink's Magical Melodies_ hardly looked magical as we approached. Its red brick frontage was stained with soot, windows broken and doors knocked in. A barrage of bullet holes adorned its white quoin corners. Atop a smoking green roof trim, yellow letters dangled from a wrecked sign:

 _Albert Fink's Magical Melodies_

 _A Division of Fink Industries_

"Booker..." Elizabeth said nervously, eyes darting down the empty street. Above the towers and darkened high rises I could see the three towers of Comstock House split by a break in the clouds. Gunfire echoed through the high buildings about us. "I don't like this."

"The Vox have been here." I answered.

"Archie?" Evelyn whispered, creeping closer to the door.

I put an arm out to hold her back, pointing to the window to our right. Inside I heard an odd but familiar melody, the same as calliope at Battleship Bay...a song about 'girls wanting to have fun.' Even stranger was the sound of the instruments backing it, neither calliope nor piano. Above the music I heard a moan and looked to the women.

"Where's my Uncle?" Asked the boy. Slipping through the open window, I made a dash toward the opposite door. Shortly Elizabeth and the boy came on, followed by Evelyn. To my hand the white wood of the door opened with barely a creak. A ruined Sitting Room lay within, carpet layered by dust.

Pursuing its mahogany tables and high back chairs, the music seemed to play louder. "This feels like a set up." I said, glaring at Evelyn. The boy looked at me with wide eyes.

"We'd _never_ do that to you!"

"I'm not saying _you_ would." As I spoke I heard that groan coming from down the darkened corridor again. From a door ajar, faint illumination lit the carpet.

"Archibald?!" Evelyn cried, lunging so for the Sitting Room.

"Evelyn!" I snatched her back. "Don't be a fool! You and the boy stay here. I'll check it out." Elizabeth glared at me, and with a sigh I continued. "Elizabeth and I...we'll check it out."

"Who's there!?" Shouted a deep voice. "Come out and show yourselves, hands up!"

"Were not Vox." I replied, keeping Elizabeth out of sight. "We're here for Montgomery. Archibald Montgomery."

"Who is he to you!?"

"He's my husband! Please, if you have him here, let me see him!"

I rolled my eyes and pushed Evelyn back. "Look, we got no quarrel with you but if you have the man, we need to get him home."

"Show yourselves."

"Not until you tell us who you are. Tell me who you are and I'll show my skin."

"I'm Albert Fink. I own this place, or what's left of it."

"Uncle...Uncle _Albert!?_ " The boy suddenly cried, bursting free of Elizabeth's grasp. She started to chase him but I stopped her cold, placing our backs to the wall.

" _Freddy_!?" I heard with a sob. "No, stay there...stay back!"

The boy crashed across the debris strewn carpet, disappearing into the back rooms. "Oh, Uncle Albert! Uncle Albert..." I heard the muffled thud of body against body, another sob, then presently, "Who are these men?"

The three of us looked to one another. " _Out_!" I shouted.

Beyond the ruined window I saw movement, Columbian regulars darting for cover amidst the debris and fallen cladding of the building. Wrestling Elizabeth downward, I had half a mind to gift Montgomery a bullet...yet in her face I could see she was as bewildered as I. Against my better judgement I drew her to the ground. "You lied to us."

"I swear to you, I did not!" She exclaimed, eyes frantic.

"Look, I'm thankful you brought the boy." Fink continued. "Beyond thankful, actually...we thought he was dead with my brother. Still you need to show your face now. You have to know you're surrounded."

"Got any tricks up your sleeve?" I asked Elizabeth.

"There are...are tears here, but just...people composing music and singing." She said with a morose look.

"You have to be able to do better than that." She looked at me and shrugged. "Great."

Then from the dingy mist outside came a new voice, one like the melody I'd heard before but strange. "Elizabeth, it is time to end this tantrum of yours. Haven't you caused enough hurt?" That voice now was not Fink's, deeper and gravelly.

"What do you want with her!" I shouted, counting the rounds in my repeater.

"I want to take her home, False Shepherd. That is all. Surrender her now and I shall let you leave unmolested and free to depart Columbia. If not, then you will see the Father's divine wrath."

Perhaps for a moment Elizabeth thought I'd considered the offer for she suddenly evinced an anger I'd not seen, fury born of fear and desperation. Reaching backward with outstretched arms, she seemed to grasp the very air itself which suddenly came aflame in a brilliant white shear. A blast of deafening sound erupted from the tear, emanating from towering stacks of black boxes that undulated just beyond a fiery periphery. So loud was it I dropped my weapon and threw my hands to my ears.

Beyond the windows it had similar effect. I saw Comstock's soldiers panic, probably wondering like Cade's men before what devilry had descended upon them. As they covered their ears and even fell to the ground, I could see the old man amongst them, clad in a knee length brown coat with padded shoulders. Even he had turned away by his daughter's malign blast.

Unable to remove my hands for fear of going deaf, I looked back to see Elizabeth's face beset by her own attack. Like me Evelyn was upon the ground covering her ears, and though she was screaming I couldn't hear what. In fact, I couldn't hear anything. Outside I saw movement, saw Comstock raise his hand and drop it. A thrumming struck the building and the tear abruptly collapsed, the hideous cacophony with it.

Elizabeth screamed.

As she writhed her hands flew to her head, shimmering splinters of light evaporating from her body. She fell to her knees, wailing for moments before she could speak. "Make it stop! _Booker,_ _make it stop_!"

I flung myself outward, taking cover behind the cutout of a ruined wall. From my new vantage outside the _Melodies'_ battered shell I could see a gunship hovering above, three sound horns slung below its silent expanse. Liquid light seemed to emanate from Elizabeth, flowing into the horns ears like water down a drain. I brought my weapon up and took aim at one. Something struck me in the side of the head that felt like a locomotive.

Down on my flank, I rolled to see a Columbian regular in padded armor and leather helmet, rifle in hand, face inscrutable behind his eye ware. Once more his boot caught me in the chin, sending me backward over the stone pile rubble as his mates poured over the crest. Above me with beard and mustache white as snow Comstock gloated in triumph. I'd not seem him before, but he was frighteningly like the portrait we'd seen at the curio shop at the Bay. Pointing his cane at me he spoke anew, loudly enough that his voice carried over her cries.

"You see child..." One of his men kicked me in the gut. Spit and blood flew from my mouth. "You chose to follow a False Shepherd and he has led you astray. Now I shall lead you back to the righteous path. What I do I do for love!"

As he advanced toward her, a man in dark glasses, gloves and white lab coat hastened forward betwixt the troopers. With Elizabeth still writhing, he took her into his arms. Dimly from the broken building I could see Fink and a captive Evelyn looking on...saw the boy's bewildered eyes alongside his Uncle.

"No!" I heard Montgomery's wife cry, only be silenced by the butt of a Columbian rifle. Amid their kicks and punches I heard Elizabeth's shrieks falter...saw her slump forward, brown hair falling before a slackened face. Drawing the hypodermic syringe from her arm, the physician sequestered it in a leather pouch at his side, nodding to the soldiers to take her in their carriage.

I'd failed her.

Completely and utterly, I'd failed her.


	20. Chapter 20 Red Sky in the Morning

**20\. Red Sky in the Morning**

I'd no idea of how much time had passed before I woke, only that when I came to the chamber I was in was rumbling. Gradually my eyes opened and I felt the pain return, the bruises from a dozen or more kicks and punches. My face I could feel covered in scratches. Eventually I realized I was in a holding cell. Again the building trembled.

 _Vox_ , I thought, wondering if they'd yet succeeded in taking control of Columbia. By my presence here I figured they hadn't. Over this portion at least, wherever it might be, Comstock still held sway. Hazarding to my feet, I peered out the only window in the cell, a sad thing five inches by eight, set with steel bars as if I might slip through. Beyond it Emporia's cloud swept skyline was gray and dark while in the streets below, watching over the gulf of air that separated wherever we were from it, troopers clustered within makeshift fighting positions. A bridge had been drawn up that led to the main island.

"They've burned it all." I heard from outside my door. "And it's your fault."

I turned to the voice, carrying from a small metal door on the hatch. "I didn't have nothing to do with the Vox, friend. Your holy savior conjured them up all up on his own." I cradled my aching gut.

"You're lucky the Prophet insisted we spare you. If it had been me, you'd have taken a long dive to the deep end of the Atlantic."

"Where are we, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Comstock House, filth." Faintly I heard boots scuff the concrete outside, followed by the ring of a bell and handset lifted from its receiver. "Yes. I'll wait." Loping to the steel door, I peered through to see a trooper on a telephone. He looked back my way, tall and gaunt, pale with hazel eyes that lacked emotion. "Your Holiness, the Shepherd has awakened. Are you certain this is what you wish?" By the souring of his expression he didn't seem to savor the answer. He nodded anyway. "Yes, your Holiness. I'll have him ready."

He must have divined my gaze for his eyes smoldered upon me. Casually he hung the handset upon its receiver and walked my way, loosing a truncheon upon the peep hole as he arrived. Backward I snapped as it struck against the cold steel. He chortled beyond the door.

It wasn't long before Comstock joined him, the old man entering through the cell block's outer door, nodding to the guard who took up behind him. Smugly he approached the door of my cell. "So, False Shepherd, you are finally awake. I'd thought Sergeant Vines might have been a shade too rough on you at Fink's residence. Even that you might not recover."

"I guess I'm tougher than I look. And what is with this 'False Shepherd' bit anyway? I ain't never even heard of this place before, let alone been here. How could you even know about me let alone moniker me ' _False Shepherd'_?"

"The question, Mr. DeWitt, is how could you have possibly _known_ about Columbia, considering where you are _from_." Brow furrowed, Comstock inspected the door...tapped upon it with his cane.

"What do you mean, 'where I'm from?" I asked, puzzled. "You mean New York?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. How, might I ask, did you get here?"

"By Zeppelin." Even now I could smell the smoke from outside, wondering why he was dallying with me while his city burned. Either he was nuts or getting at something. "What did you do with Elizabeth? With Archie and Evelyn?"

"My, my, Mr. DeWitt...you demand so much when you are in a position to insist upon absolutely _nothing_. But if you must know, my daughter is being prepared for her next role in her life, that of my successor. In that matter, nothing has changed."

"And the Montgomerys?"

Through the peep hole Comstock turned to the guard. "You mean the couple that aided and abetted you? The ones who facilitated your _kidnapping_ of my daughter and _sympathized_ with the Vox? My, such paraphernalia and propaganda they had in their home. What fate do you think becomes of traitors and apostates?"

"You murdered them."

"They received the judgment God had set upon them, Booker DeWitt. May I call you that? It is your name, after all, isn't it?"

"You can call me whatever you like, jackass. I'm going to be grinning ear to ear when the Vox stick your head on a pike."

Comstock nodded toward the door. After hesitation the hazel eyed guard stepped outside, leaving the two of us alone, separated by but an inch of steel. His blue eyes turned to mine through the grate. "That will not be anytime soon, Booker. With the fortuitous death of Miss Fitzroy her so-called insurrection is now split between forces loyal to my old acquaintance Slate, Preston Downs and these repugnant Bavarian communists. In their struggle for dominance my troops have been able to reassert control of a good portion of Emporia and Finkton, as well as the outlying islands. Soon we shall reassert our control over the rest, God willing."

"How do you know my name?" Through the hole I could see Comstock's eyes turn away from me, gazing outward through a larger window upon what I could now see to be an airship, heavily gunned, hovering protectively over Emporia's devastated skyline. The big one I'd seen at the park upon my arrival that seemed so long ago. Beyond it clouds streamed by the city's darkened downtown, gray and forbidding.

"Well, Booker...I am a _Prophet_ after all."

"You're no prophet. You're a fraud and a murderer."

"I have killed, yes..." Comstock said. "That trait we share, but I assure you that I am _indeed_ a seer of the future. After all, I've known of your coming for some time, False Shepherd...or had that fact eluded you these last several days?"

"The posters..." I whispered. "How could you..."

"How could I _know_? Through _prophecy_ , DeWitt. God saw fit to lend his gift to me many years ago in the form of a young lady, a brilliant young lady. Perhaps you have heard of her...Rosalind Lutece? It was she who developed the ability to make tears, though unlike my daughter's innate talent her design was through a device."

"Tears...you use tears to view the future. That's why the damned things are all over the city."

"The result of experiment, yes. They tend to drift you see, though one may hold them in place by the cunning application of electromagnetism. Alas, with Dr. Lutece's untimely death I have had to make do with what I could retain myself." He paused, looking downward at his fingernails. "It was enough."

"I suppose you had something to do with 'untimely.' Or did you just pawn that off on Fink to take care of your dirty work?"

He scowled at me. "Both she and her brother perished in an accident. Tragic really, and well before I could carry out my revenge upon McKinley. Luckily there were others who hated him as much as I."

"McKinley?" I asked, thinking back these many years to the assassinated president. "What's he have to do with this?"

"T'was he who in our hour of might, as our fire rained down upon Peking, it was _he_ who strong armed the Congress to recall us. As if he or anyone in the Congress had any capability to dictate one _iota_ as to what this city _could_ and could _not_ do. And this Roosevelt who followed him, this...this _despot_...he has been no better." He looked at me clearly now, my eyes meeting his. "The Philippines would have gone differently had it not been for that mistake. You would not have suffered so."

"What do you know about me?"

"More than you know, DeWitt. I know about your murderous ways, for I have seen them in a hundred windows into your soul. Yes, I know about the Philippines and the poor, poor Moros you took such an interest in, I know about your time with the Pinkertons and the men you beat and crippled. I know about Wounded Knee."

At that sentence I froze, feeling cut to the quick. No one knew about that, no one save Slate and the men whom with I'd done the deed.

And Elizabeth.

Had she betrayed me?

"You condemn me after you've built this folly on little more than the backs of slaves. How did you think for a moment after the war, after what's happened in Europe, that it could end any other way?!"

"How many of those 'backs' did you personally break for Carnegie and others, Booker? How many men did your deeds enslave to work for little more than a pittance?" Looking outward again at his burnt out city, he continued. "I've seen this all not once...but a _hundred_ times. Of course the timing varied...I couldn't predict the precise day you'd come in this reality, nor the week the Vox would rise...there was too much variation. But come I knew you _would_. I'd seen you in the crowd. And rise the Vox would, I also knew. And, my old friend, I have seen _THE_ end...and this is not it." I challenge you, oh, righteous Indian spirit of the Dakotas, to name even _one_ great civilization that _wasn't_ been built upon the misfortune of the wretched. Point to one egalitarian upstart that even _survived_. How...in God's great wisdom, could he allow such merciless schemes to prevail unless it was Providence, _HIS_ master plan?!"

I was no scholar of history but none came to mind. "Why did you do that to your girl? My God, she's your daughter and you locked her up in that tower, all...all alone her whole life. Don't you know we _tortured_ people that way?"

"I did it for her own good. She had her books and her advisors until she became too willful, DeWitt. With Lutece's untimely departure and her growing threat, what else could we do? Rosalind was the only one who truly understood Elizabeth and could approach her. Without her guidance, with the deaths Elizabeth caused...I simply could not get my people to stay in the tower."

"Yet you'd kill to keep her here in the city." I said, digesting her complicity in the blood I'd seen. Had she even known?

"Because she is the _manifestation_ of Prophecy, Booker. I have seen..." He started, but then stopped, seeming to choke upon his words. "I have seen that I shall not live to witness God's judgement upon the world, the world that rejected the gifts I brought, but Elizabeth... _will_. She will _be_ God's judgment."

"You kept me alive to tell me this?"

"I kept you alive, DeWitt, so that I might learn who sent you. How you got here."

"I told you, by Zeppelin. From New York."

"Then you don't know, do you? You truly don't know." He answered with a smirk upon the corner of his mouth. "Could I have been so stupid or was Lutece right after all?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Many pardons." Comstock answered. "But as you know there is a bit of a war on and I must attend to the fight...after all, at this juncture there may only be one alternative left to ensure victory. I regret to inform you that by the morrow morning none of this will matter to you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must pay my respects to my daughter."

#

I called after Comstock but he left just the same, replaced by sneering hazel. I wondered if he were relishing the thought of casting me from the house gates. Over the next hours the sky refused to lighten. I prowled the cell hoping to find something I'd missed, some hope of escape, wishing fervently for Elizabeth's uncanny ability to produce open doors from thin air. Despite my vigil I must have nodded off, for later I found myself awakened by her screams.

They came to me at first as a terror, her hand reaching out to me as she was carried away from the rubble of a building in the clutches of her nightmarish bird creature. It was only after I came to that I realized her wailing had been real. I heard her screams now, carrying from outside through the rectangular cutout that was my only opening to the world.

She was being tortured.

In the gloom overhead I heard the droning of an airship, followed by shouting and a pop from below. In short order the Zeppelin, still only dimly seen, returned fire. Bullets and cannonade raked the fighting positions below and sent men diving for cover. Illuminated by the lights of Comstock House and its own spotlights I now saw the Edmonton's red starred tail in a descent, twin gun turrets coming to bear. _Engels_ , I saw emblazoned in black calligraphy upon its prow. Realizing what was about to happen, I dove for the floor and covered my ears. A terrific detonation shook the foundations of Comstock's Palace.

"By the Prophet, what is this you've done!?" I heard hazel bellow. Keys turned in the lock and the door came open, just in time for me to lunge. He had his rifle out, apparently with the intent end to my shenanigans permanently. My impact drove him back out the door and into the wall. His weapon went off and plastered the open door frame above as we hit. I pulled my arm back...saw those hazel eyes wide...then plunged my fist into them with a snap. He went limp, his head cracking the tile like an overripe gourd.

Outside the battle continued, punctuated every few minutes by the shatter of _Engels'_ guns. Helping myself to my guard's repeater, I sifted his pockets for ammunition then pressed myself back to the window. Below Comstock's holdouts were in full retreat...yet not all of them. From the smoke I saw strange figures emerge with a mechanical gate.

Mobile turrets.

As _Engels_ came alongside the house its ropes flew. Men in black uniform heaved themselves from the airship to tie it off even as bullets sparked off of the zeppelin's steel shell. Now the machines I'd seen approaching engaged, Gatling guns whirling and spitting fire at the Bolshevik's advance party. The ship's deck guns opened fire, blowing the mechanical house guard into razor blades.

Far too close and fearing I'd follow the House's façade into the abyss below, I sought the corridors. From my brief view of it from Emporia, Comstock House I'd seen comprised of three towers, the outer two adorned by flood lights and the higher central ziggurat capped by the Angel of Columbia. Beneath each five hundred foot rise was an enormous façade of one of Comstock's Founding Fathers...Jefferson, Washington and Franklin. What the Jews forswore in graven images Comstock's ilk more than made up for.

My cell block must have been in the Eastern Wing, for I happened upon another window and could clearly see the stonework of Franklin's glasses dangling below. Despite the cacophony of gunfire, I could still hear Elizabeth's screams. Following the catwalk I emerged into a chamber high and rectangular, fifty feet across. The run I'd been following wrapped arounds it on three sides, a balcony to the floor twenty feet below. Hearing approaching voices, I fell back to see two gray suited Columbians dash across the floor. Not long after I heard shots ring out, followed by a barrage of bullets that shattered glass and flesh. Then I only heard German.

Circumnavigating the creaking catwalk, I discovered twin wooden doors on the opposite side. Daring to open them, I found the décor changed from utilitarian I-beams and concrete block to red carpeted floors and paneled halls. Upon the walls I noticed a placard...saw annotations for a bevy of prominent places. _Lutece Experimental Chamber_ and _Auxiliary Siphon_ stood out. Down the curtained passage I began to run, my feet quieted by red carpet upon the marble.

Before I knew it I blundered into an open rotunda, a circle of portraits adorning its surround. Between them tapestries hung, while at blown double doors on the other side four Columbian Constabulary looked down another approach...men with the fear of God upon their faces. As I stumbled to a halt they turned to look at me. Our weapons raced to beat one another.

One of them pulled faster but his aim was awful. As his misguided rounds tore the plaster and paneling to splinters, I shot him clean through the chest. The others dove. About us renderings of Columbia's elite crashed to the floor. Wheeling around those opposite doors, one of Comstock's police swung inward and fired, his bullets chewing into the paneling beside my head. I pulled back and sheltered behind a column, flinching at every volley, letting him waste his ammo.

From their rear an explosion threw debris and a shower of stone. Suddenly Comstock's men were on _my_ side of the portal, one of them turning to again shoot down the next approach while the others continued firing upon me.

It had been a long time since I'd been on this end of the stick, not since a squad of Sakay's jungle boys put me and my mates into the ditch outside Manila. Clenching my eyes against the flying debris, I listened and waited...heard one of them yell for his comrade to flank me. Perceiving motion, I rolled outward...brought the repeater up to find my target in a crouch. With brown hair and frightened green eyes the cop was barely an adult. He got off a round before I answered him three fold, riddling his grey coated frame with a burst of lead. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the floor. A hammer hit my arm.

I screamed, dropped my repeater and clutched the raw wound. Where the Columbians had died an explosion blossomed, smashing the last of them against the wall. The man who'd shot me spun to the roar, shielding himself instinctively from the blast. It gave me a dandy shot, yet with my arm bleeding out I couldn't position the goddamned gun. Bullets blasted his form, and with the blood pouring out of him he slumped to the ground.

Grunting and groaning, I managed to bind the bullet hole with my teeth and neckerchief. I now saw it oozing red from a hole about the size of a nickel. Wincing against the sight and pain, I realized from lack of gushing that the round had spared the artery. I couldn't find an exit wound.

Outside I heard whispers from the pall of smoke billowing in from the hall...saw a stick with a can on its end drop amid the dead men. An spray of shrapnel pelted my column, the blast setting my ears to ringing. I hated grenades. In the swirling smoke two men in black uniform swung into the Rotunda, surveying their victims. Remaining still against the pillar despite my pain, I peered outward to see a blond man walking past the portal, Steyr in hand, casting an offhand glance at the aftermath of the Rotunda. Ten others followed, machine guns at the ready.

In black uniform as he'd been with Fitzroy the fellow evinced a distinctly Germanic air, a cool Teutonic command that emanated from those blue eyes and hushed guttural syllables. Not Eton but Munchen. Upon his arm he wore a red armband.

He approached what I now saw to be a pair of closed double doors ahead of his men, finding them locked or perhaps barred. After a fruitless kick of glossy jackboot he nodded to one of his Sergeants. The man slipped forward through the crowd as Edmonton motioned his troop back, placing a potato masher in the handles. Producing another himself, Edmonton pulled the string at the handle's base and set it atop the other before hastening back down the corridor.

The blast blew splinters of wood and fabric past me, and after the crash abated I opened my eyes to find the doors demolished. Kicking the splintered boards aside, Edmonton's goons took to the carpeted passage beyond in quickstep. Again I heard his commands, growing more distant as they receded down the corridor. I played dead a little longer, biding my time. Checking my arm again, I found the bandage tight and the pain less. I'd been lucky. At least I still had two legs yet to be shot. With a grimace I lifted my repeater and went after them.

Before me more gunfire echoed from the outer passageway, and from the shouts and cries ahead I realized Edmonton's assault hadn't finished Comstock's men. Keeping my distance behind the Commie's main body, I stepped through a second pair of bullet ridden doors to find a sprawl of bodies. Above the door a brass placard proclaiming ' _SIPHON ROOM_.'

I'd heard her screams echoing through the corridors, pleading in vain for the men doing whatever they were doing to her to stop. Edmonton had obviously heard them too, homing upon her shrieks like a beacon. Advancing inward, he'd deployed his troops alongside the laboratory walls in a cordon. Despite all they'd seen in Columbia and the other places they'd surely fought, nothing had prepared them for this.

Within a glass-paned cylinder Comstock had Elizabeth shackled upon her back, hands strapped to a metal bench beneath a bright overhead floodlight. Beside her two men in surgical gear stood, white coats and masks concealing their faces, eyes suddenly looking up to the Bavarians' arrival with arcane instruments in hand. Cables ran the tile floor beneath them, while above the girl two sound horns drew in shimmers of diaphanous light. Overseeing it all from above the containment I saw the bearded silhouette of the monster himself, hands behind his back.

"They're here! Get your men upstairs!" One of the surgeons shouted, eyes now firmly upon Edmonton. "If she gets ornery, hit her with the machine!"

"You damned idiots...they're HERE!" Comstock announced over the public address, the anger of fear in his voice. "Get her to open the tear _now_ or we're _done_ for!" Looking at the Germans with hateful eyes, he turned and hastened from the overlook. Following his retreat Edmonton glanced to Elizabeth's containment bell and the machinery about it. "Destroy it." He said with a nod. In unison they raised their weapons and commenced fire.

The barrage was deafening and sparks flew, but the more they fired, the more it became apparent that the glass was not only thick but bulletproof. The slugs simply made pock marks. Edmonton raised his hand and the firing stopped. Inside the bell the scientists were cringing. He turned his eyes to the black and white zigzag of the tile, following numerous cables to through the round orifice of a hatch. With his Steyr he shot it, but only succeeded in setting the thing alight. "I want the girl." He said calmly to his men. "Find a way in." Perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of fear they nodded and fanned out.

Whatever procedure Comstock's butchers were inflicting upon Elizabeth it was both painful and effective. Over the past days she'd deterred me by all manner of keen apparition. Now she lay impotent, writhing in pain as these 'physicians' manipulated the most horrific contraption in her back...something like an electrical plug. Aside from them I could see two men manning glass enclosures above...the ones the cables led to. They could only be the source of the Siphon's power, the power that was _destroying_ her. Alone I had no chance against Edmonton, but with Elizabeth...

Behind me I heard a clunking, thudding drone. Into the passageway entered two lumbering automata, each bearing the visage of Robert E. Lee. Twelve barrels spun up. I dove for cover beneath a pierced metal stairwell, narrowly dodged their fire. Edmonton's men wheeled and opened fire. A hundred rounds struck each, shattering their guts and blowing pieces willy nilly left and right. Inside I heard one's gearing grind to a halt. The other Lee sank to his knees and fell over face forward as smoke spewed from its backside. Having heard the commotion, Edmonton turned. His eyes met mine.

" _Töte ihn!"_ He shouted.

Again Elizabeth shrieked but I was busy. I dashed to an access ladder that rose to the closest cupola. At its top the door was shut but unlocked, and as a fusillade of lead hammered its seemingly impregnable windows I kicked that door open...raised the gun to the terrified operator. He raised his hands to his face. I shot him dead right through them. Outside I heard boots hit the ladder. Turning my weapon upon the console, I followed suit.

"No!" I heard from below, turned to see one of the doctors looking at me in abject terror. I was on to something. I riddled the control console with the last of my clip and the thing blew in my face, sparks and electricity flying left and right. "He's shut down one of the generators! You need to sedate her!"

"We are _not_ going to sedate her, Powell!" The other screamed. "She's our only chance! Make the tear, bitch!"

Behind me beyond the door a machine gun clattered sideways upon the grate. Gunfire raked the enclosure. Upward I jumped as bullets ricocheted, one striking the shooter's weapon and knocking it clear to the man's yelp. After a second I heard him lose his balance followed by a hard, meaty impact upon the deck below. Seeing Edmonton eyeing me from beside the great cage I began to backpedal, tearing down the glass passage with increased haste, rounding two corners until I emerged in the other siphon's control chamber. Hovering over the operator's corpse two men in black uniform stood with machine guns. With my weapon at the ready I pulled the trigger to a deafening 'click.' Sparks flew about me and I felt metal pins and shavings sting my skin.

Stumbling backward out of the line of fire, my ears rang. Fumbling through my pockets for a magazine, I was just about to seat one when Edmonton rounded the corner, jackboots clicking. He lowered his pistol to my eye.

"Ah, ah." He said, shaking a black gloved finger at me. With a toss of head he brought his soldiers to my side, muttering something in German. "Imagine meeting you here, Mr. DeWitt." He withdrew his handgun, even as his men covered down upon me. "I must say, you do have pluck. You put down Daisy Fitzroy now we find you coming after Comstock himself."

Behind him Elizabeth screamed. "Open the damned tear!" Her doctor answered, pulling her arms down, slapping her across the face.

Edmonton followed my gaze. "Alas, your situation is hopeless."

"What do you want from me." I groaned.

"You're an able chap...in fact, I believe you were well ahead of me in realizing the nature of this girl. A cunning ability such as that would do well for the Internationale."

"A little premature to be...be choosing sides, don't you think?" I offered in a broken cough. My blood was dripping through the grate to the tile below. "Then there's this little matter of the Vox. I think they'll want a say in Comstock's disposition."

Edmonton smirked, his dapper English façade making him look positively diabolical. "Mr. DeWitt...a de facto _alliance_ exists between the forces of the Second Internationale and the new 'government' of Columbia under Mr. Downs. In recognition of our assistance, we are free to take what we see fit."

"The girl."

"Yes. You must know that we already have the lift cell manufacture...at least enough equipment to replicate a line of manufacture. Alas, hydrogen gas is not enough to provide for the needs of our growing aerial armada. And with what is coming on Continent, an Armada will be needed."

"But you already have that." I said, remembering _Engels_ hovering over the Liftworks. Did they even know what Comstock had been working on?

He smirked...cast a glance toward thrashing Elizabeth. "She is such an oddity, not to mention quite fetching...which is why I've come to take her too." He stepped toward the remaining Siphon's cables and circuitry. "Along with the means to subdue and control her. Perhaps she may turn out to be a weapon even more powerful than dreadnaughts."

"Be careful what you wish for, Fritz. You'd do better chasing down the old man."

"We are not the least bit interested in the Dear Prophet, DeWitt. We did, however, hope to discover what he knew about the Lutece Facility and origin of its production, as well as a certain reserve of cells we've apprised and scientific secrets we have as of yet have been unable to find. Bring him." He said, turning back towards the cab.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Of course I'm going to kill you, DeWitt. Right after you tell me what you're hiding." Two of his men disarmed me in concert and dragged me to my feet. I was a bloody mess, but began to realize that I perhaps looked worse than I actually was. They thought I was done for...so I had the advantage.

At gunpoint they allowed me to descend the ladder, a metal rung thing...like the one leading up to the other cupola. Alighting on the debris strewn tile, Edmonton's men pushed me at gunpoint toward the containment bell. Inside the surgeons were staring outward at us, masks down and breathless. Elizabeth was supine, no longer moving. By the looks upon the faces I could see they'd failed at whatever they were at. I was so proud of her.

Edmonton glanced at the hatch and smiled. "Open the door."

"N...no." One of them said.

Edmonton approached. "Who are you?"

Sweating profusely, the blond one he'd addressed answered. "Dr. P...Pettifog. This is Dr. Powell. We're in charge of the Comstock House...Re-Education Facility."

Behind them Elizabeth opened her eyes. After a despairing moment she found mine. "Oh, excellent. We have those back East and I assure both of you are invited for a stay. Please open the door." When neither complied Edmonton turned and extracted a potato masher from one of his men's belts, then another, followed by a third, all the while keeping his smiling eyes on the nervous physicians. Gingerly he sequestered two in the hatch locking mechanism. With a nod he chastened his men backward, including the pair who had restrained my arms. Holding the last before the terrified men, he toyed with the pull string at its base. "I suggest you open the door or the invitation is rescinded." Neither did. "Pity."

He pulled the string and set it with its brood mates. His men drew back and the improvised breaching charge went off with a stultifying bang. As the smoke cleared and shrapnel finished plinking to the floor, Edmonton emerged with Steyr in hand. Kicking the shattered hatch inward with the sole of his boot, he glanced upward at the Siphons, still wringing Elizabeth's life force from quivering body.

"Please, no!" The doctor shouted.

Edmonton shook his head. "You should have taken me up on m offer." Summarily he shot the one called Powell in the forehead.

 _Engels'_ men stirred and I took the moment to drive my boot heel down the one to my right's shin. He screamed like hell but let go. I swung about and drove my good fist into my other captors face. With the others distracted, I liberated him of a potato masher and yanked is string, heaving it upward into the cupola. Inside the bell I saw Edmonton's eyes widen...heard his muffled voice shout, _"KILL HIM!"_

Suddenly everyone was in motion...until the grenade went off and sent them crashing to the ground. Having been at war for most of my life, I knew a few things about grenades. One was that I hated them. But I _loved_ baseball and could land a pitch exactly where I wanted. It went off with a shatter and suddenly the power went out, followed by the generator panel exploding in a fratz of light and energy. I was hoping for a distraction.

I got one.

Relieving my stunned captor of his repeater, I brought it up butt first and racked the man in the jaw. As he spilled to the floor a couple of his more conscious friends opened fire. None of us had cover, but they missed and I didn't, riddling their corpses until they fell. Bullets struck to my right and I pedaled backward, taking cover behind a stack of heavy machinery that was now dead as a doornail. A potato masher clanked and spun at my foot.

Eyes wide, I kicked its gyrating mass back to whence it had come. It went off with an ear numbing crack and hideous screams, the deformed shrieks of dying men. Realizing I'd soon join their dying if I stayed put, I forced myself upward, ears ringing, holding the Russian automatic as level as I could.

Edmonton had come out now, striding through his mortally wounded crew like a juggernaut. Crew, I thought. _Not_ soldiers. God, I'd been lucky. Having substituted his Steyr with a Russian zip gun, he blasted the machinery in front of me, forcing me back behind a wall of crates.

As Elizabeth wrenched herself from the bench a tremor shook the floor. Holding herself upright upon one arm she looked up to her torturer and shrieked. The chamber flashed, a fiery curtain of electricity drawn back to reveal a hellish black cloudscape two hundred feet across. Amid fields of whipping wheat lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. A towering black funnel of dirt and debris spun before us, its sound that of a fast approaching freight train. The remaining physician wailed and Edmonton turned in shock, eyes gaping at his forthcoming doom. Nearby a barn exploded, splinters flying into the towering vortex.

Edmonton screamed.


	21. Chapter 21 Aftermath

**21\. Aftermath**

When I came too wheat and machinery was strewn about the laboratory, the panes of the Siphon enclosure broken and blown out. Save for the dim light of blasted control panels and sparks that issued from fallen electrical equipment, it was again dark. Of Edmonton and his men I saw nothing, only smears of blood upon the tile and the faux Brit's orphaned Steyr. I noticed a plank of siding driven straight through a concrete pillar.

Shoving the debris upon me aside I staggered to my feet, craning my head toward the distant gunfire resonating down the hallways. Whether it was _Engels_ , Comstock's loyalists or the Vox I couldn't tell. Negotiating the debris strewn tile I came to the apex of the low, circular stair Edmonton had ascended to enter the containment. Atop it there remained only half a doorframe...and Powell's headshot corpse, bloody upon the floor. The one who'd called himself Pettifog lay there too...impaled manifold by razor sharp blades of glass. By the lack of glass shards anywhere else, it did _not_ look accidental.

Warily I turned to Elizabeth whose eyes were clenched, forehead damp with perspiration upon the bench. Hands that had been bound were now free, though still at her side in claw-like rigor. She was crying...arched in pain. The thing in her back I now saw to be some form of syringe...one the size of my fist. I dropped the weapon and carefully took her hand, lifted her with a slip of my own beneath palm her right shoulder blade. It was my freshly wounded wing, and though it pained me to do so that was nothing compared to the agony she was in. As I took her she moaned, pain coursing her face. Beneath the blue of her single sheet she was naked. My effort exposed the syringe...the drain...had been inserted directly into her spine. Her wet eyes cracked open to mine.

"I got you. It's okay." By the way she gaped at my touch I could tell this wasn't good...what the hell had they done to her? Some form of powering cable sprouted from the drain's cap. "Okay, I'm...I'm gonna fix this." Was all I could say, having no earthly idea of how to do so. If I pulled it, it might _kill_ her.

"Just...just do it." She rasped. Against my better judgment I drew the steel from her back.

" _AHHHHHHNG!"_ Her cry echoed the chamber, a spurt of bloody fluid issuing in the needle's diabolical wake. As she slumped forward I caught her in my arms. She gasped for breath. I tried to pull her toward me, yet she pushed me away, hand quaking in the air as she attempted close eyed to breathe against the shock and pain. Amid her back now lingered the impression of a circle larger than a silver dollar, divided into three sections with a slowly closing hole.

As she sat there holding herself the sheet began to fall away. Recovering her with the linen, I took her in my arms and hefted her upward to my chest. "I've got you. This is going to be all right."

"You came for me." She whispered, eyes looking at mine.

"Of course I did." Her head and hands found my shoulder, feet dangling bare as I made my way out from the ruined center. I felt her exhale. "We're going to find an airship and leave."

"Booker..." She rasped, eyes now open blearily. "We can't."

" _Paris_ , Elizabeth. Remember, you wanted to go to _Paris_."

"Booker..." She rasped. "You don't understand. Your dream of New York...it happens."

"What?"

"I saw it...while they were trying to bend me." She said with tear stained eyes. "Columbia lays waste to your city...then others. Only it...wasn't Comstock doing it. It was _me_." She was crying again now. "And it was far worse than you can imagine...a sea of fire."

" _You_?" I asked incredulously, stopped dead in my tracks with what I was certain a dumb expression upon my face. Finally I realized what those words on Monument Island had meant. _And the Seed of the Prophet shall drown in fire the mountains of man._

"Yes." She whispered. "It was _me_."

#

Fearful to handle her further I set Elizabeth in a chair, searching for her clothes amongst the wreckage. The room was cold. Clad only in the sheet, she was shivering. Near the dressing room alongside the bay I discovered a door placarded " _Oracular Array_ " along with a red lettered sign stating _"Authorized Personnel Only_." Seeing as the door had been destroyed, I nominated myself so and ventured inward.

The chamber was long, with twin rows of what looked like mirror frames on either side. Amidst it were tables and ledgers festooned with notes. Several large cameras lay beside them along with stacks of photographs. As I perused the stands I realized the chamber smelled of fried air, and with a half turn discovered that the mirrors were nothing of the sort.

Twin posts with a bar across the top of each held a singular Lutece Cell, poised above an oblate sphere while two poles with balls protruded below. Between the two lay an undulating eye of fire. Within its perimeter was _not_ the back of the room.

Through each I saw vivid scenes in varying shades of sepia, including one of myself looking at myself in the chamber. This shocked me, obliging me to check it in increasing detail both front and behind. Back in the Siphon Chamber I heard noise and quickly returned to find Elizabeth risen but prostrate against a pillar. I took her in my arms set out to find somewhere warmer.

Beyond the doors I found a marble corridor, wider and more ornate than any I'd yet come across. Carpeted in red and bedecked with pillars and paneling, through its high glass windows I could see an airship lifting away. It wasn't _Engels_. Upon its outer walk gesturing into the distance I made out Comstock. Though my gaze followed, he wasn't even aware I still lived. Instead with his hand he pointed deckhands toward the Liftworks.

Searching the next few doors I stumbled upon a grand foyer, decorated with sculptures of angels and heavenly apparitions. Following the carpet at its center I came to what could only have been Comstock's bedchambers. Parting twin doors with a kick of my boot revealed an expansive bed, canopied in burgundy and red upon a darker carpet with gold filigree. Gently I lay Elizabeth upon its covers, realizing that not only was it freshly made but unslept in. Off to the side I found a pitcher of water, cubes of ice still solid within its glass round. Outside the midday was dark with clouds, split by the sound of gunfire and explosion. Fearful to move her yet again, I decided to wait. Hours passed, and I wondered after Edmonton's demise what had happened to his warship.

Eventually I hazarded another search, prowling through the adjacent chambers as Elizabeth rested. Where Comstock's staff had gotten off to I didn't know, for this wing of the House seemed entirely abandoned. In his chamber four wardrobes adorned the walls, along with two large walk-in closets. Within one hung rows of immaculately tailored shirts and coats, clothing that I found fit my frame oddly well. Filling the basin in Comstock's lavatory, I washed the blood and grime from my face. Attended my newly shot arm...looked in the mirror.

I had deduced from still being alive that my new arm wound and scrapes were superficial. Discovering a pair of tongs and a bottle of grain alcohol, I set the razor down and took a hearty swig. One by one I then extracted the more painful splinters...bled a little more before wrapping my wounds with linen strips. I felt weak and spent, and wondered just how the hell I could go on. With a hand towel I cleaned the mess from my face, washed the grit and grime from my arms and chest. Now both my arms hurt.

Knowing I was no surgeon, I decided to let the embedded bullet wait, and after dousing my head in the tub scrubbed it clean with a bit of Comstock's soap. I had days of stubble, and finding the moment borrowed the man's abandoned razor to shave. Leaving the bath behind, I shoved a wardrobe in front of the inward opening door and took to the bed beside the girl...closed my eyes. Amid the chaos outside and intermittent echoes of fighting, it was all too easy to again see New York in flames.

It _couldn't_ be her.

But then I remembered my dream. Had one of those mirrors shown _that_?

#

When next I opened my eyes it was to Elizabeth shaking my shoulders, the room about us dimly lit by electric lamps. The sun, if there was one, was blocked by gaudy tasseled shades. "Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead!" She exclaimed with furrowed brow, nearly beside herself.

"I will be if you keep shaking me like that!" I exclaimed, sitting upright upon my bad arm...a mistake I immediately regretted.

Her fingertips flew to her mouth. "You've been shot there too?!"

"Does it show?" I groused, cradling its bandaged girth. Wrapped in the sheet to her chest, she took my forearm in her hands, petrified. "Bullet's still in, but...I'll live." A determined look came upon her face. There was a shimmer over my arm and I felt a crackling sensation. The bullet fell out upon the bed. "My God, how'd you do that!?" I exclaimed. Though my arm hardly felt any better, psychologically it was a shocking relief.

"We're farther from the Siphon here." She answered, pulling the sheet tighter around her bosom. "Now that the house machine is destroyed..."

"You have free reign." I answered.

"No." She replied, handing my forearm back to me. "I don't, but..."

"Well..." I said, remembering the destruction she'd summoned. "After what you did back there, it sure looks to me that you have free reign."

She looked at me with forlorn eyes. "You've no idea what they were doing to me."

"I have _every_ idea of what they were doing to you." I said without looking. "And I don't blame you one damned bit. Edmonton and those bastards had it coming and if it hadn't been you it was damned well gonna be me."

"Edmonton?" She said, and I suddenly wondered if she'd even known the Bavarians had even been in the chamber. It didn't matter.

"You all right?"

She lowered her eyes. "As 'all right' as perhaps I'll ever be." She glanced toward her bare back. "It still hurts."

I looked away now, realizing that she had become conscious of her undress. "You need to find something to wear."

She glanced to me, studying my own new apparel. "Where did you find those?"

"In there." I said, turning to the closet. This is Comstock's bed chamber. His and his wife's." Through her figure the thought sent a chill. "I didn't find any women's things."

Tentatively Elizabeth placed her foot upon the carpet, standing with her hand upon the bed for balance. Though it was obvious she wasn't entirely well, she managed to rise. Hand holding her sheet in place she hobbled across the floor to peer into the closet, the scabbed mark upon her back bared to see. "These fit you?"

"Close enough." I answered, turning up the sleeves of my fresh shirt. After a moment I joined at her side.

Together we looked through the dressers, discovering little of value for a lady. She ventured toward a side door I'd thought another bathroom and opened it to reveal an adjacent passage. Walking together its length, we passed a closed chamber on the left and arrived at an attached nursery.

As I pondered the empty cradle, she attempted the side door. "Locked." Producing a needle from thin air, she knelt and picked it. The door opened to a large space adorned by dresses and boxes of women's clothing.

"Bingo." I muttered.

Together we entered and Elizabeth began to sift through the hangers, looking at dress after dress. "These were my mother's." She seemed to freeze, turning slowly back toward me with a tormented expression. "Do you hear that?" She asked.

I heard nothing. "Elizabeth...are you all right?"

She pushed me aside and entered into the adjoining nursery. "There...there's a tear." Seeming to look about the place, she suddenly turned and looked back down the corridor.

"Elizabeth..." I said.

She walked past me, picking up her pace until she entered the bedchamber then out into the passageway. "Please, you're not in any condition..."

"I told you, there's a tear!" As if possessed she continue back from whence we come the day before, drawn like a moth to the flame of the Oracular Array. As she entered I followed, seeing the girl's eyes upon the myriad burning windows. She seemed drawn to one...the scene a small, black haired baby girl in the cradle within the nursery we'd only just left...and two women arguing over her crying form. One of them was unmistakably Lady Comstock.

 _Dead_ Lady Comstock.

"You whore!" I saw her shout, fists clenched over the crib.

"I assure you, Madame, my sexual interest in our dear Prophet is non-existent. Furthermore, the man is quite sterile." The other woman I didn't recognize, though she had auburn hair and was rather attractive save for her taciturn demeanor.

"That is a lie!" Comstock shrieked, nearly knocking the cradle over in her wrath. "Take your little bastard! I want her out of my house!" The scene collapsed, leaving Elizabeth silent. Shortly afterward the next array began to show it, differences slight but noticeable.

"Sterile..." I whispered, approaching her side as her eyes fixated upon the next one. "Who was that woman?"

"They weren't my parents." Elizabeth said after a moment's pause.

"Unless the other woman was..." I looked upon the next array. " _Is_ lying. Who is she?"

" _Was_ she..." Elizabeth answered, eyes hanging upon her visage. "Rosalind Lutece."

"That's Rosalind Lutece? _Tears and lift cells_ Lutece?!"

Elizabeth nodded. "The same. I thought she'd just...gone. But...but what Daisy said...Fink had her _killed_."

"And why would _Fink_ have done that?" I looked into her eyes...felt the paper in my pocket. "Unless it was to steal her technology...her secrets."

Eyes turned downward, she'd stopped listening to me. "I'm not even his daughter...I'm just some child they decided to imprison. Some...specimen...to be poked...prodded!"

"No, you are _not_." I took her shoulders in my hands, drawing her eyes to mine. "Elizabeth, listen to me...what you've been through, ain't nobody in the world deserves that."

"Booker..."

"We are getting' out of here, you got that? And we ain't never gonna have to look back."

"I told you we're _can't_ leave. We have to _find_ Comstock and..."

"Why!"

"To stop _ME!_ " She shouted. I will not, _cannot_ , allow that to happen!"

"And what if by chasing his sorry ass down that is _exactly_ what happens? What if I'm killed and you're left to _him_? Dammit, Elizabeth, that's why we're leaving!"

" _NO!_ " She shouted, not out of anger but sheer panic. Whatever she'd seen had frightened her beyond all reason.

"So, _what_? _You're_ going to kill him?"

She huffed, shaking her lowered head. "Is this where you start...moralizing...Booker? You forget..." She turned to look at me with a burning glare. "I _know_ you."

It had been a mistake to tell her, I realized. A mistake to tell anyone. I took the Russian repeater and checked its load. "I'm not gonna let you kill him."

" _Really_ , Booker?" She said, in a flash of power impossibly peeling back the chamber to the maelstrom, a horizon of wheat and corn above which spun that hellish storm. Machines sparked, Lutece cells fell from their mountings and viewing apparatus tumbled to the floor. "What are _you_ going to do to stop me?!"

The blast tore machines apart, and as they sputtered and lamps and papers and tables crashed to the floor, I realized she was right. Elizabeth was no mere girl...she was a _weapon_ and death danced at her heels. Still, I'd faced death before. I took a step toward her, gazing sternly into her eyes. "Not a damned thing..." Amid the gale I let the repeater fall to my side and took her in my arms. Our lips met, and with my fingers at the back of her neck I felt her shudder, tresses whipping across my arms. The tempest broke. After what seemed an eternity we parted, hovering silently before her closed eyes. Sparks flew about us from the wrecked viewing equipment, only a handful of the dozens still intact. She was a mess. With my bloodied arm I brushed her hair back. "Because I'm gonna do it for you."


	22. Chapter 22 Vox Redux

**22\. Vox Redux**

Elizabeth remained subdued afterward, glancing to me with that hopeful but wary cast women get when something unexpectedly romantic stumbles into their lives. I wasn't the romantic type, but ever since I'd met this woman something drove me mad thinking of any harm coming to her. Now that something, _had_ I wanted her at my side, sound and safe, forever. As I worried for the approaching gunfire outside Elizabeth returned to the bedchambers and nursery, sifted the wife's racks for something acceptable to cover herself with. Eventually she emerged in an off white dress with a hem just below the knees, matched by dark lace boots and a bowed ribbon about her waist. The top of it like the former seemed almost a corset, but all white. She produced the same jacket she'd worn earlier, unsullied, and began to brush her hair out.

"You're wearing _that_?" I asked, wondering where she'd gotten her sense of style...I liked it, but figured she might bomb New York simply for tongue lashing its ladies would unleash upon her.

"I have to be able to _move_ , Mr. DeWitt. I nearly killed myself tripping over...over that _hem_ of Mrs. Montgomery's dress. The rest of these...things...in there...why they're so stiff and heavy as to be unfit for wear by a corpse."

"You didn't think that about the _last_ dress."

"Oh, I did." She said, setting the hairbrush back upon a vanity shelf. "It needed changes. She looked up to me taciturnly. "But it was a gift of sorts and beggars can't be choosers."

I chose not to regale her with that poor couple's fate. With a grumble I ventured inside and garnered a coat for her, a coat she eschewed. "We're a mile over the North Atlantic, Elizabeth. It may be summertime but you've seen how cold it gets out there. She glanced to the jacket. "I thought you'd lost that."

"Montgomery's jacket?" She asked, still looking to me with that...look. "Down in the room where they disrobed me. I hope you understand...I...I've no desire to return there. It just so happens that...that I might have found the original."

"The original?"

"Well, _an_ original. In the closet." I looked inside. In a pile upon the floor and covered in dust, it wasn't in the best of shape.

I began to walk. "We'll never catch him, you know. He left hours ago and we have nothing to catch him with."

"Then we'll have to use the gondola system, Booker." She turned me to face her, and she was very earnest. "Please...you can't let me turn into...into that."

"My God..." I answered, feeling my brow turn at the revulsion I saw in her countenance. "What did you see?"

She shook her head. "Something...something awful. Something worse than the Tower."

"Whatever you saw, Elizabeth, it wasn't you. You'd never do that."

"That's where you're wrong. It was me. I _lived_ it. I became an old crone, used up...alone. He'd...Comstock...he tortured me...conditioned me for years, and for years I'd held out hope you'd save me. _For years_. And he died. And I...I grew old and when you didn't come and I came to resent you...I came to _hate_ you. And in my despair and isolation I...I let Columbia's lunatics gain sway. I let them do horrible things. I...did horrible things."

"Elizabeth..." I touched her cheek. "It wasn't real, no more than what I saw was real. And even if it was I'd _never_ give up trying to save you." The words churned in my mind, remembering how it had been with Annabelle. For a moment she simply looked at me, the same expression she'd had when I'd first met her.

Treading beyond a frontage of destroyed doors, we emerged to _Engels'_ handiwork...the entirety of the Comstock House's façade had been removed, windows and frames blow out and columns shattered. It might normally have been a scary prospect to linger beneath unsupported heights, but even the overhanging pediment was gone. Somewhere, I figured, it was in the Atlantic. "My God..." I whispered as the wind caught my hair. Elizabeth nudged into my side as we looked outward.

Below Emporia still poured out smoke, a handful of gunships drifting overhead, firing into the more active neighborhoods along its southern flank. High above the Aerodrome hung empty save for the massive length of _Engels_ , smoking, apparently trying to have damage repaired that it had taken the day before. Monument Tower, visible in the waning light, was but a shambles of its former self. Looking to our right I pointed toward the Liftworks and found another zeppelin moored beneath its base...out of sight of _Engels_. "Comstock..." I said quietly. "By God, he's still here."

"That's the _Hand of the Prophet_." Elizabeth answered. Slowly we began to walk toward that island.

"How do you know that?"

"I learned a lot of things while they were trying to turn me. It's his flagship." Kneeling in the rubble she found a Broadsider and handed it to me. Warily I looked to her and holstered it.

The veranda's remaining stone railings stopped any further progress. The Liftworks were at least two miles distant. I looked about for a transport of any kind. "You summoned a hurricane...I don't suppose you can summon a zeppelin _now_ , can you?"

"I...I can't." She answered, and by my immediate displeasure she had to know I found her answer preposterous. To our left I heard a horn and saw two gunboats rising from below, bound for the combat down Emporia. One trailed red banners, the other a Columbian Star. Upon its deck I saw a grizzled old eyepatch wearing grey.

"Step back." I said and fired off a burst with the repeater. Slate was yelling at one of his men, and as the sound reached them I saw their heads swivel. After a few seconds both vessels began to veer. I smirked, glancing downward at Elizabeth's astonished face. "You're the daughter of a _prophet_ , girl. You ought to have a little more faith in yourself."

#

 _Doberman_ came alongside Comstock House with its men prepared for a fight, rifles and deck guns bearing upon us as the gunship's mooring lines arced across the Prophet's outer balustrade. Amongst Slate's hardened gray soldiers I was surprised to see Joshua Cade. Taking Elizabeth by the hand, Cade helped the girl across the thin abyss between the boat and stone. "Praise be God, you alive."

"Who's this one?" One of the soldiers said.

"Miss Comstock..." Cade answered. "Seed of da Prophet." Too late to advise caution, I braced myself for what might come next. Like Joshua, Slate's men seemed near taken aback.

"I only wish that weren't the case." She said, glancing warily toward me.

"I think General Slate want to see you."

 _General_ , I thought. They laid no hands upon us, and unlike our first meeting it was apparent we weren't prisoners. Cade led us up a flight of metal stairs to the wheelhouse. When we came into the presence of my old squadron mate, he looked somewhat different than I remembered the day before.

"Booker DeWitt. So you've survived. And with Comstock's girl."

"I'm...not Comstock's _girl_." Elizabeth said indignantly. The old cavalryman cocked an eyebrow.

" _General_." I said with a tip of my head.

Hearing my intonation, Slate smirked before tossing his gray locks toward the skipper. "Cast off. We've a battle to join." Below the neck his body was strapped into a machination of sorts, a metal skeleton that seemed to move with his will. Considering how badly the man had been wounded before, I supposed it beat a wheelchair. He noticed our examination. "A modification of Betterman's Handyman suit, specifically for invalids and nearly dead soldiers."

"It suits you well."

Slate huffed. "I'm not as decrepit as I look, DeWitt, and soon as my lung and spine get right I'll be shed of it. For the meantime, it's been helpful." He studied her then me. "Downs' men have taken the Lower Quarter but Walthorne's loyalists have them pinned down. We're on our way to break the stalemate."

"For which side?" I asked.

"For _our_ side." Slate answered back. "If we can use these gunboats to our advantage, we might just be able to get some of Comstock's men to switch loyalties...least enough to blast that damned Red ship out of the sky before we commence to shooting the hell out of one another again."

"Maybe you should take your fight to my Father himself." Elizabeth chimed, voice bitter.

Slate's lieutenants turned their gaze. "How is that possible?" Slate answered. "The _Hand's_ long gone and the Oracle of the Atlantic with it."

"It's not." I said, pointing toward the Liftworks. "Look closely...Comstock's got her moored beneath the Lutece plant. They're looking for something."

"By Jove, they are." Slate said, rising unconsciously from his makeshift throne. "What do you suppose it is?"

"No idea." I answered, wishing we could just take _Doberman_ and get as far from Columbia as possible. "Fink's lift cell cache, maybe..."

"Weapons." Elizabeth asserted. "A new type of weapon based on the tear machinery. The Lutece Cell."

"A _weapon_...based on _Lutece Cells_?" Slate responded. "How do you know that, girl? Last I heard you'd been raised in a cage."

With a cautious glance to me for reassurance Elizabeth approached him, surrounded now by his commanders and the flight crew. Men were peering in from the hatches and portholes, eager to see not only this manifestation of their faith but possibly history. Their adulation didn't go unnoticed, for the eyes of men got at the girl. She forced herself to attend their leader. "I...it's something I saw...in a vision." A murmur ran through the gathered men, something like awe. One could have heard a pin drop.

"So you carry the sight like your father." Cornelius replied levelly, in his gaze seeing both the rejection of such things arcane and a steadfast belief in them.

"Not sight...' She said...closed her eyes and shook her head. "A tear, or something like it."

"Like your father." He smirked.

She opened her eyes. "There is a way to turn them into weapons...terrible weapons that...that can burn...incinerate entire cities. Like bombs."

"Lutece cells, turned into bombs..." Slate repeated, brushing his soot stained face with his hand. "And you think this is what he intends...to destroy Columbia with these weapons?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "The people who fight against him? Of course, but there are others upon which his enmity is set."

"The mainland?" One of Slate's blond troopers supplied.

"The Mainland." Slate clarified. "And D.C. soon as he can. Has to be. It's all the son of bitch ever talked about in our private councils. He despises Congress...Roosevelt even more so. Who knows where his ire will end?"

Uncertain as to what she was talking about, I opened my mouth. "Will you help us stop him? Whatever he is doing, it can't lead to good."

Slate eyed me and placed a hand behind himself, hydraulic pistons hissing. "For old time's sake, DeWitt...maybe." His gray eyes turned to Elizabeth, regarding her accoutrement. "But for revenge, _absolutely_. You take after your mother." He reminisced, for a moment sincerely sad. "She was a saint and didn't deserve what he did to her." He glanced about to his men. " _They'll_ do it for _her_."

A turn of the helmsman's head caught Slate's attention. Following the issue of orders he scattered his men back to their posts, and followed us out onto the outer deck.

"So, you know?" He said simply. "About Lady Comstock."

"That she wasn't my mother?" Elizabeth whispered as we alighted upon the starboard gangway. Just below eye level now Emporia flowed by. In its many buildings and frontages I could see pale faces looking out toward us, desperate faces terrified at the portent we presented. Occasionally one of the children pointed our way. None of them were waving. "We saw her say so through a tear in the tear room..." Elizabeth said, looking about toward the men diligently manning the rails. When again she spoke she did so with discretion, voice barely loud enough to be heard above the rushing wind. "I've...no idea who's child I am. Lady Comstock, we..." She looked to me. "She accused Rosalind Lutece of..."

"Of being your Mom?" Slate interrupted, checking his repeating rifle and counting one by one the magazines in his leg pouches. "I highly doubt that. Fitzroy didn't kill her, you know. _Comstock_ did. Then he had the Luteces murdered to cover it all up."

" _He_ had the Luteces killed?" She said. _Comstock?_ "

"Yes, because Zachary had wrung her neck _himself_. It took me and my officers years to slice through his lies, but eventually we got to the bottom of it. Maybe that's why they ousted me...killed my friends...tried to have me killed too. Said I was 'jealous' because Comstock wanted to claim he was the great commander of a massacre. No, it was because I'd discovered their dirty little secret." As he spoke Slate seemed to despair. "Now they've destroyed this place in an attempt to keep those crimes from becoming public knowledge." Slowly we inched past a building, its five stories still smoldering from a recently concluded battle. "Look at what's become of our White City."

"It's not all white." Elizabeth intoned, stirring the railing with her fingertip. "Have you _been_ to Shantytown?"

At her question he turned, elbows set upon Doberman's railing to the grind of oiled metal. "Why do you think I'm with these men? When I was down, after the years I'd helped keep _them_ down for Comstock and Fink and Marlowe, they were the only ones who stood by me. Most of the men I'd called friend..." He gazed toward the south, where the battle between the Vox and Walthorne's regulars was raging. "They abandoned me. Then I saw myself for what I was...a useful, vainglorious fool. I was the problem."

"And now whose side are you on, _General_?" I asked, exchanging a glance with the girl as I did so.

"On the side that keeps the most people of Columbia alive. Particularly _my_ people, but we're _all_ Columbians, Booker. Time we started acting like it."

Looking ahead, I scanned the Liftworks and Shantytown beyond. "Where do you think the best place to put in will be...atop the building?"

"That's what Cade and I concluded. These ships...they're small fry compared to the _Hand of the Prophet_ and by its big guns we'd get shredded. Better to come in from their blind side...the docks. That way they won't know were coming. When we're ready, _Doberman_ and _Rottweiler_ will run a distraction round the other side of the factory. Comstock's still got his most fanatical with him...he may be a Prophet, but he's not a god. This will be his end."

"And if they've posted lookouts?"

"We'll make it look like a hasty scout...not like we're dropping off troops."

"And then we'll be able to go?" Elizabeth had been listening, hanging unconsciously near me. Slate's brow furrowed and he looked upon us intently. "To New York?"

"To Paris." I corrected. Looking up to me, she smiled.

"Paris. That's a new one." Slate observed. Before long his turned to gaze outward across the war zone that had been Emporia. "You'd better get ready, DeWitt. Ask Cade for weapons if you need them. It's gonna get bloody."

#

If the _Hand_ had posted sentries, we didn't see them on our approach. Both _Doberman_ and _Rottweiler_ came in high from the sun, its corona gleaming golden amongst the remains of the previous day's front. From the outside the Lutece-Fink Liftworks appeared as a long red building with an arched glasshouse atop its length, a glasshouse ideal for lookouts and one Slate's pilots studiously avoided by mooring on the far side.

We'd been through the Liftworks days before but from below. This approach provided a new vantage to see its true scale. What Elizabeth and I had experienced as a single loading platform, the 'slip,' we now saw to be one of ten, each flanked by expansive dockyards that faced Emporia. _Doberman_ put down amidst a surround of crate stacks while _Rottweiler_ alighted just beyond them. Together the gunships deposited some twenty men. Alongside Slate, to a man they were all raring for a fight.

Slate _was_ a sight to see, all geared up inside the Handyman armor. Looking at his mechanical monstrosity, I wondered what my old friends at the New York Pinkerton office would think. A strikebreaker's dream, I supposed, before wondering what they'd say had they encountered him on the _other_ side.

Elizabeth was quiet as we walked, whether from her ordeal, unsettling vision or our admission I couldn't tell. Casually I loaded my Broadsider. Lacking ammunition for the Russian. I arranged the acquisition of another Triple R from Cade. The weapon had done me well. I expected it would do so again.

Slate and Cade seemed to know the factory, for the landing we'd taken to led straight back to a bank of elevators. Through the gaps between the Liftwork's various sections I could see the grey black cigar of Comstock's flagship hanging below, along with men crossing gangways in armor similar to what Slate had adopted. I didn't want to think what they might fight like with repeaters.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked as we queued behind Slate for the lift.

"Down there...that's the _Hand_." Not only could I see now Comstock's men at work, I could see some of Fink's unlucky Handymen at work beside them...along with some of the damndable automatronic soldiers. Slate and Cade stopped at my side, the veteran garnering a look for himself.

"They don't seem to know we're here. Good." Slate said before tromping alongside us.

"They've got us outnumbered and outgunned."

"Perhaps but we've _Doberman_ and _Rottweiler_ to stir up a commotion. We'll hit them from the back and they'll never see us coming."

Just ahead of us Elizabeth had been talking to Cade. Cornelius regarded them sadly. "Paris, eh?"

"Yes." I said, seeing her bashfulness at the black man's attentions. She had that way about her, now that she was in the world for all to see...the center of attention. The center of it all.

"I warned you, Booker, you can't take her."

I still had my weapon in hand and didn't take kindly to threats. "Cornelius, or should I say _General_...you and I go back a long ways. For old times' sake, I wouldn't try to stop me."

"That's not what I mean, fool. You don't just think these islands float here under giant balloons, do you?"

"I've had an education on the matter." I answered tersely, wondering by her offhand glance toward us if Elizabeth had heard.

"Lutece cells require _power_...and to lift this city's foundations requires _millions_ of them. See all of those abandoned stacks? Those old _coal_ plants?" Edmonton's words came back to me. "That's right, DeWitt...this place used to be fired by _coal_ until Comstock alienated the homeland and hauling it up here became exorbitantly expensive. Luckily a new power source made itself available."

The look on my face must have been priceless. My eyes flashed to the girl. "Elizabeth."

Cornelius nodded. "You pick up fast, kid. Rosalind Lutece found herself with a lot of power to dispose of when that girl became a young woman. Comstock saw an opportunity where one hadn't existed before."

My brow furrowed. "Edmonton was right then...he's been using her as a battery to float his damned folly."

"A folly home to over a _million_ people, DeWitt. And what do you think is going to happen to Columbia when you spirit her off to the land of nookie and that Siphon runs _dry_? Hell, the city's already lost altitude since you sprung her."

I looked him over. "Well then, Cornelius, it seems to me like you either ought to start building more power plants or learning to swim."


	23. Chapter 23 Hand of the Prophet

**23\. Hand of the Prophet.**

Eyes locked, Cornelius and I descended the steps to the Liftwork's elevators and headed down. When the lift came to a halt Elizabeth seemed distracted and distant. Worried for her, I approached her side. "This is going to work. I promise you. We're going to stop him."

About us Slate's men assumed positions along the railings and ramps overlooking the _Hand_. "Booker..." Elizabeth whispered. "Do you think it's possible to...redeem the kind of things we've done?"

"Redeem?" I answered, attention more on the enemy below than her. In the sky I heard a higher pitched sound than the _Hand's_ thrum of propeller... _Doberman_ and _Rottweiler_. "I don't see much use in that." As the sound grew louder Comstock's loyalists and Handymen looked up from their task of loading cylinders. Lift Cells, I thought, but larger...and the cargo nets were half full.

"Booker..." She asked. "Are you...afraid of God?"

"No." I turned to look her up and down. "But I'm afraid of you."

I'd said it in jest but her she didn't take it that way. Along the railing Slate's Lieutenants marshalled their men, preparing them for the moment of truth. "Get down." I said. "Here they come."

From right and left our gunships banked about the Liftworks in a pincer movement, and before the gunners aboard the _Hand of the Prophet_ could react, Slate's hounds opened fire with their deck guns. Explosions billowed from the _Hand's_ flanks, bow and stern, too small to do any great damage but more than enough to seize the attention of every man on deck below.

With the chop of Slate's hand his squads opened fire, cutting down the deckhands with a rake of bullets. Struck through the back, the lone Handyman teetered and fell over face first, legs collapsing beneath him as an explosion burst his chest. Quickly I joined Slate's riflemen, picking off the upper deck sentries as they moved to return fire. Stung by the noise, Elizabeth covered her ears and turned away.

In two columns we descended to the wharves, finding Comstock's people moaning and dead upon the teak. Behind upon the overlook we left a handful of men to provide top cover. Across the concrete we raced for the dock, passing trolleys and nets full of cylinders. Elizabeth slowed to a halt, looking at the corpses about us. "Come on!" I yelled, waving her onward. Instead she stood rigid as though she'd seen a ghost, drawing Slate's men's eyes as they ran past. Fire erupted from the upper deck. I turned about and threw myself upon her. Machine gun fire raked the spot where she'd been standing.

"What they hell was that!?" I exclaimed, finding myself face to face with the woman as slugs pinged the metal containers about us.

"It's _them_ , Booker. It's what I saw in...in..."

"What?" I shouted, barely able to hear her over the report of guns and ringing in my ears. "The _weapons_?"

She nodded, cringing every time a bullet struck. "The tear bombs. The _fire_ bombs."

"Jesus." I said, ducking myself as metal cut the air with supersonic cracks. "They're real?! And how... _bad_...are these things?"

She reached out and touched one, and inside its crystal viewing portal I could see a brilliant spark. "One...one for an entire city."

" _What_?!"

"One missile will burn an entire city to the ground. And Comstock must have one hundred here...maybe more!"

A hundred indeed, I thought, unable to believe such a thing. But in the days I'd known her the girl had never lied. A hundred cities aflame...Comstock truly _could_ wreak his revenge. "If he's had them this long, why hasn't he already used them?!" I shouted. Out on the _Hand's_ deck I heard a thumping...heard men scream followed by gun fire...a rotary cannon that was _not_ ours.

I rose, passed by a handful of Slate's men in headlong retreat. Behind them mobile turrets advanced in echelon, cracked visages of George Washington adorning their mechanical facades. How they operated God only knew, but three of them saw me and turned, bringing their eighteen barrels to bear. Slowly the barrels began to spin. "Get down!" I shouted.

Elizabeth already had...she'd the common sense not to move in the first place. As I dove for the concrete sparks began to fly off the canisters. I heard a tremendous whooshing sound. Suddenly light bloomed on the far side of the stack and a stultifying explosion blew the pile apart, scattering cylinders and us

Moaning where I came to rest, I saw Elizabeth lying face first upon the pavement. My heart stopped. At my side I discovered one of the automatons still upright, though half its face and arm had been blown clean away. Of the others I saw nothing but smoldering piles of debris...the barrel of a gun here, a neck articulation there. One of the eyes kept focusing on me from its detached socket. Reflexively I opened fire, drilling the one lumbering toward me until it hissed, popped and exploded in a crack of smoky thunder. " _Elizabeth!_ " I cried, crawling amid the overhead crack of bullets to her side.

I picked her up and cradled her in my arms, wondering why the hell I'd let her follow. This was a fiasco. Behind me Slate's contingent had opened fire on the second wave of advancing automata. Somewhere above I saw the Cavalry himself leading a charge down the upper deck.

Blearily she opened her eyes. "Booker?"

"Oh, thank God." I sighed and pulled her head to my chest.

"What happened? Where are we?" She asked with a shudder. I felt her clasp my shoulder blade.

"Those mobile turrets...one of them detonated a cylinder. What the hell is _in_ those things?!"

"Sunfire." She answered, finally sitting on her own. A bullet ricocheted from the container beside us and I pulled her back. "Can you move?" She nodded and I helped her upright.

Caught in the crossfire between Slate's gunships, men and Comstock's beleaguered forces, I sprinted with her hand in mine for the nearest cover...the _Hand of the Prophet_ itself.

Sirens blared as we stumbled onboard, tripping over the debris of a Handyman whose head was staring skyward in glassy eyed death. A hideous and sad sight, Elizabeth fixated upon him until I drew to me. The din of the propellers changed and the deck lurched beneath us. The gangway sundered and the airship leapt skyward...the _Hand of the Prophet_ was underway.

Pulling her into the dim shelter of a nearby cargo bay, I scanned the racks of equipment and crates for foes. "I think I found us an airship."

"So you did." She said woozily, brushing her hair away from her eyes. "Where...where is Slate?"

"Somewhere amid ship, higher I think. He must be going after the bridge. Elizabeth, are you okay?"

"My head is ringing." She said, palm upon her temple. "The explosion...I must have struck it."

I examined her scalp for blood or wounds, finding a welt beneath upon her crown. She jolted. "Maybe there's an Infirmary upon this thing."

"Booker, I'll be okay." She protested, pressing me away. "We need to stop Comstock...before he does his worst."

"But if he had these weapons before, why didn't he _use_ them?"

"Because..." She answered. "They don't work...not well, at least. Not like they will. They have a tendency to..." She swooned before once more opening her eyes. "They...they tend to blow up before they reach their target...and their potential."

"So they're duds and can't hit anything?"

"Not unless you have a lot of them...and..."

"And?" I said, tipping her chin upward, her eyes to my gaze.

Her eyes widened as she looked about the chamber. "Are on a suicide mission."

#

"And you saw this while you were being electrocuted?" I said as we wended our way through the stacks of cargo, many of them the very same cylinders that had exploded upon the ramp. I was still unable to believe, let alone comprehend, what the girl was telling me.

"It's some horrid plan he concocted with the Luteces. Why they agreed to it I'll never know. She never seemed like that type."

"Of mad scientist?" I supplied. "My dear Elizabeth, from everything I've gathered, that woman was the very definition of _'mad scientist.'_ " With my dizzy charge behind me we took to an open hatch and made our way forward.

Sporadically we heard shouts, followed inevitably by gunfire and the screams of dying men. Coming to a stair down, at its first landing we came upon two dead Columbian troopers and one who should have been dead. Throat torn open, the kid raised his bloody hand to me and croaked, blue eyes asking me for mercy. After all I'd seen in Columbia, I hardly knew anymore what that meant. I looted them for ammo, a tin of water and bandages. As I was about to put a bullet through the kid's skull, Elizabeth stayed my hand. Looking with pity upon the boy, she reached down to cover his neck and in a flash of light his wound was healed. Color began to return to his face and he breathed the breath of life.

"How the hell..." I said, dumbstruck at the girl.

"There...there was a tear." She muttered.

"There was no tear. You just made it...how in the hell did you do that!?"

"I...I switched his wound from a world where...where he'd just died from a gunshot chest wound. Where he didn't...need... his throat anymore. At least one of them lives." Below us the boy moaned. He wouldn't be getting up soon.

I took her by the hand and rose. "Come on."

#

As we walked I couldn't help but stare at her. Her explanation had seemed simple but was tantamount to magic. Hell, it _was_ magic, and it was obvious that whatever force had neutered the woman's abilities for so long in Columbia...the Siphon...was losing its grip.

Though fearsome from the first time I'd seen her, it was apparent from the inside that the _Hand of the Prophet_ hadn't been built as a warship. It had only a modest steel framework and the most minimal armor, marking it as a cheap conversion from a liner. Nearly 600 feet long, it was nevertheless big and despite its structural shortcomings Comstock had bedecked its hardpoints with the heaviest guns such a vessel could reasonably mount. Against commerce and pirates, even against some belligerent states, that still made his flagship a formidable opponent. His crew, however, were less than zealots, running at the sight of my barrel and more so the war cries of Slate...whom we could hear from the decks above.

By the heavy load of the motors reverberating through the hull it was clear the _Hand_ had left the Liftworks permanently behind. Its deck angle told me that we were climbing hard. Shortly Elizabeth and I came to a hatch that emerged onto outer gangway, opening it to a vista of twilight Emporia. She reeled at the windswept heights but oddly I only felt a tinge of vertigo...nothing like the nauseating incapacitation from just days before. Now my fears turned on other concerns.

"Where...where are we going?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly with hand upon chest, tugging the jacket about her shoulders.

"I suppose that depends on whether you're referring to us or Comstock's ship. Assuming the latter, how many allies do you think he has outside of the city?"

"I...I don't know. He never exposed me to the reach of the Congregationalists, but I suppose..."

Behind me I heard a thumping, a clunking of a Handyman suit. Elizabeth heard the same and together we turned, expecting Slate. Instead an oversized backhand slammed me against the bulkhead.

" _FALSE SHEPHERD!"_ The thing bellowed, hate brimming upon his bald face eight feet above me. Lumbering toward where I'd slumped, his articulated arm reared back for a killing blow. Elizabeth shrieked.

Before his fist met the deck boards I rolled away. Splinters of wood shot into the air. " _RUN_!" I yelled. Back on my feet, I began to sprint...turned to fire my automatic. He was right in my face.

I went flying past Elizabeth and smashed again upon the deck, rolling upward against a metal bulkhead as the giant came after me. Seeing me stunned upon the deck, Elizabeth threw herself to her knees before my wrecked form and shrieked " _NO!"_

" _WOMAN DIE_!" I heard the man-thing shout. Elizabeth threw her hands wide and an open cargo hatch appeared in the deck, edges aflame. The mechanical monstrosity teetered over its edge, arms flailing, eyes suddenly wild as he attempted to regain his balance and not tumble forward. With a scowl Elizabeth extended the hatch a foot farther and down he went. She snapped her hands together and the tear closed with a crack. Below decks I heard a distinctly heavy crash and bellowing groan.

"Are you all right!?" She asked in dread, twisting to my side. Gently she turned my battered head to face her wide eyes. I heard a shear of her dress...felt pressure applied to my nose.

"I'll live." I groaned, opening my eyes once more to see two...three of her. Oddly they all seemed to be dressed differently.

"What...what was that thing!?" She pleaded, scanning nervously about. "Hold this to your nose. You're bleeding."

"I'm lucky that's _all_ that's bleeding." I muttered, pressing the rolled strip of cloth against my bloody nostrils and holding my ribs. Silent for a moment, the wind caught my hair and I began to focus.

"What...what was that?"

"Another Handyman." I muttered, remember the thing's mechanical body...the heart pumping inside a transparent pressure chamber. Of the man that it had once been, only the fellow's head and guts remained, sustained by some arcane art of Fink's butchering physicians. "Same as Slate's but worse." Below I heard roaring...the tearing up of metal in rage. "Jesus, Elizabeth...why didn't you just send him down to Emporia!?"

"Constants and variables...they don't make hatches in decks that lead to a fall. Not in any world I could imagine."

"Try a bomb bay next time." I said, upright now upon my elbows. She offered me her hand. Still feeling as though a freight train had struck me, I took her offer and rose to my feet. She was smiling at me. I coughed...managed to grin back.

Down the outer deck I heard a garish clunking sound, much like a steam shovel running up a flight of steel stairs. Forward along the side of the vessel a hatch burst open and our mechanical monstrosity lunged into daylight. " _FALSE SHEPHERD!"_ It howled, temples straining with such anger that I thought he might burst a blood vessel. He accelerated toward us.

"Oh, shit." I said with a roll of my eyes, scrambling from Elizabeth toward my repeater tossed across the deck. It was too far away, I thought...I'd never get to it in time.

"Booker, catch!" I looked over my shoulder to see a sawed off hog leg flying through the air, caught it in my hand, spun and fired. My slugs blew out the giant's heart and he burst him into a shower of sparks. For a moment I heard his servos whine before he screamed and fell over backward. Slowly his eyes rolled back into his sockets. Of remarkably large gauge, the double barrel was now emptied of two solid slugs. "Nice." I said, still breathing heavily. "Where did you get it?"

She walked toward the wall and retrieved the repeater, checking it for ammunition before handing it over to me.

"I found it." She said, voice yet unsettled.

"You found it." I muttered, taking the repeater in its stead. "Where?"

She shrugged. "There were giraffes."

"Giraffes." I sighed, looking the dead monster over. Above I heard the crack of gunfire and a cry of 'Lay into 'em, boys!'

"Guess we've found Slate." I said, Elizabeth's eyes following mine. "I think it's time we ended this, don't you?"

#

Negotiating a ladder upward, we arrived at the next deck to find Comstock's command in disarray. Here and there in smoldering piles lay shattered automata, their inner workings sprayed across corpse littered wood. Stepping about the debris laden killing field Elizabeth and I headed for another ladder and climbed, climbed until we alighted on the uppermost level. Heading now aft, we saw Slate and his remaining men in a shootout with a mobile turret and three holdout Columbian regulars.

At our approach the machine turned, dead metal eyes locking upon us as we ducked behind the lower supports of the smokestack funnel. With the _Hand_ underway the wind was whipping through the wires at almost a gale, though I realized now we weren't yet even at full speed. Bullets sprayed the metal beside us.

"DeWitt!" Slate howled as Comstock's troops peppered the machine with rounds. "You finally decided to join the party."

"We were busy!" I shouted, swinging outward to get a volley off. Chastened by my rounds and the new angle they'd arrived from, Comstock's men fell back along the outer deck. The machine, a Lee turret, was unfazed and continued its inexorable advance. "Cover down on the troopers and I'll draw its fire." I shouted. "And don't shoot me!"

As I turned back, Elizabeth rent a curtain of air. In sepia gray before us a fearsome automaton of Ulysses S. Grant shimmered, unreasonably muscled, with similarly dead eyes. Equipped with a dual Gatling guns to the singular ones the Lee and Washington bore, the thing started to advance, barrels whirling, smoking a cigar. "Holy shit!" I shouted and yanked Elizabeth back behind the funnel.

The world exploded as the pair unloaded upon one another, stray bullets sending us and Slate's grizzled veterans diving for cover. Metal flew, gears wound. A brilliant flash of light followed by an explosion. Save for the breeze all was quiet. Where the machines had once been I saw sparks...heard the pop of melting metal. We'd stopped.

"We surrender!" I heard from ahead. From about the flanks of the command bridge Comstock's men emerged, hands up, gray uniforms covered in grime and gore. Less than troops...these were simply boys fearing for their lives. Slate's men advanced cautiously, obviously wary for a trap. Only nine remaining.

"Face on the deck, Reggie!" Slate cried with weapon in hand. "Same to you, Deacon...Christian. I ain't playin' about."

"We told you, Colonel, we surrender!" One of the kids said as Slate and his men advanced in a skirmish line. "We choose you!"

"You had your chance to do that weeks ago...and you chose wrong. Where is Comstock!?" Slate yelled, punctuating his query with his repeater in the boy he'd called Reggie's ear.

"I am here, Cornelius. How convenient you arrive with the False Shepherd...and my wayward daughter in tow." The words had come across a public address above, booming across the deck in what had become an uncomfortable silence. "I shall assume that is no accident. I want you to look down."

"Look down?" Slate asked before creeping toward the windswept railing. "Why?"

"Do as I say." Suspiciously Slate and his men craned their heads outward, Slate's jacket caught by the still slipstream. "That is your Emporia below. I believe most of you and your traitorous band hail from Southside and Shantytown, and by your brazen assault I am compelled to hold your families hostage. I assume that by now...that from the course of your attack on my flag, that you suspect _what_ we carry?"

Slate's gray eyes turned upward toward the speaker. "I do. What do you want, Prophet?"

"I want my daughter. Have her join me on the Bridge."

The Bridge, I could see, jutted between two wings just forward of us. Off to our flank I could hear gunfire...saw a Vox gunship spiraling downward in flames to the streets below.

Cade glanced toward Slate. Fearsome in his powered suit, he regripped his popping hot repeater uncomfortably. I noticed that all of them were splattered with gore. "Smell like a trap." Joshua said. That feeling pervaded us all.

"Stand back..." I said, pushing Elizabeth aside. From behind the funnel I strode forth, weapon in hand. "I'm ending this."

"No!" Elizabeth cried with a flash of her hands. Step by step she flanked us, coming to stand before the stair up to the bridge. The woman glared at me hair disheveled...at all of us before staggering upon the handrail. The battle of the bots had done her no good. "This is between _me_ and _him_!" Slate, his men and the vanquished Columbians looked on.

"Elizabeth...you are walking into a _trap_!"

"Booker..." She said, trying to focus upon me before retesting the wrought iron handhold. "I _need_ to do this."

"Elizabeth..." She eyed me again before turning the hatch open. With a pause she walked in.

Behind me Cade had come up the steps. With a raise of my arm I held him back. The Bridge was a large wheelhouse, with the Captain of the vessel looking at us in terror. Blond and lanky, the conning officer beside him retained his composure, but at Elizabeth's approach his hands quaked visibly upon the wheel. Still wearing his same dark coat, Comstock stood beside the Captain, eyes trained upon the approaching woman. Through his white beard and mustache a smile appeared, and at that moment seemed almost fatherly.

"Well, come in child. I don't bite." His folksy delivery froze her in her steps. Despite her earlier insistence at putting an end to her 'father,' she seemed in scant hurry to do so. "My, oh my, how you have grown."

"Tell me, what am I?" She asked, hesitant in her final steps.

Beside the trembling, gray haired Captain, Comstock gently took her hand. "Look at you, child, you're a mess."

"Hey!" I shouted, advancing my gun in hand. "Let go of her!"

"Elizabeth..." He said, casting an eye upon me. Everything I've done, I've done to keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" She responded, leaning in toward him. Had she forgotten all he'd done to her? Despite he'd done to her would she settle for this murderer's breadcrumbs even _now_?

Raising his arm overhead while holding her with the other, he spoke as a preacher. "The seed of the Prophet shall sit the Throne...and drown in flames the mountains of man." He smiled and seemed to take pleasure in her awe...and ours too. "Why, you ask? The answer is in Scripture...'For the Lord saw the wickedness of Man was great, and he repented he had made man on the earth.' _Rain_...forty days and forty night of the stuff, and he left not a _thing_ that walked on the face of the earth _alive_. He gave his rainbow in the firmament as a promise he'd not do so again, but you see my friends, even God is entitled to a do over. As we are in the heavens, we shall honor his bond...for this time his wrath shall be not be with water but with _fire_. And what is Columbia if not another ark for another time?" He was smiling at her, brushing her hand with his, absolutely, unequivocally insane.

"But the Archangel revealed something else...' Beware Prophet...beware the False Shepherd, _Booker DeWitt_!" He looked me squarely in the eyes now, and a hateful scowl turned his mouth. "For he shall be as a wall between her and destiny."

"Why?" She asked, leaning to close to him, a moth to his flame.

"I've been a fool..." He said, caressing her cheek. "I've sent...mighty armies to stop this rebellion...rained fire on you and them from above!" Finally he looked at me. "I did _all_ of that to keep _you_ from her, DeWitt, when all I really needed to do was tell her the _truth_."

Elizabeth was still looking at him, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Ask him, child." Comstock said, brow furrowed. Suddenly with force he captured her disfigured hand. "Ask him what happened to your _finger_?! Ask _DeWitt_." At his assault she pulled away, but he yanked her back to him.

"Let go of me!" She exclaimed and commenced to struggle. At the outburst the Captain and Helmsman shied away until they were firmly against wheelhouse's panes of glass.

"Ask him!" Comstock yelled anew, wrestling against her attempts to pull away. "Ask the _FALSE SHEPHERD_! Tell her! _Tell her, FALSE SHEPHERD, tell her the TRUTH_!" In his grasp for all her power Elizabeth seemed helpless...her eyes full of fear.

I'd had enough.

Forward I strode and drove my Triple R's butt into the side of the old man's skull, sending him sprawling to the deck. As he looked up, I saw his white beard and mustache stained with blood from the impact. "She's your _daughter_ , you son of a bitch...and you _abandoned_ her!" I bellowed as I hovered over him. "Was it worth it...did you _GET WHAT YOU WANTED!? Tell me!_ _TELL ME_!" I felt Elizabeth grasp at my arm, crying aloud my name.

Stunned, the old man staggered from deck to where I'd sent him, climbing the lacquered wood of the helm. "It is...finished."

" _Finished?!"_ I threw down my gun and grappled him by the throat. " _Nothing_ is finished! You cut off her finger...you lock her up for her whole life and you pin it on _ME_!? Before I knew it all the rage I had in me, my anger at the days and days of being hunted and pursued and hatred at the malice he'd done her...came out. I slammed his head against the steering wheel and throttled his scrawny neck until his eyes rolled back in his head. In my clutches he gargled and went limp. Beside me I saw motion...saw the Helmsman lunging for a lever. It was a brass handle I now saw to be labeled ' _BOMB RELEASE_."

My eyes widened.

Before he could touch it bullets burst the man's chest and he fell over backward, twisting about before landing with a thud upon the deck. I turned to find Cade and Slate, weapons smoking and trained upon the Captain. Behind them the remainder of Slate's survivors were piling in, stricken to a man by the scene. Elizabeth knelt beside the Prophet, suddenly drawing her hand back from where he'd slumped against the wheel. "He's...dead. You...you _killed_ him." She whispered, hand at her mouth.

"Last I heard that's what you wanted me to do, storm girl." I hissed and kicked Comstock's dead hulk to the deck. I was still shaking but I didn't want her to see that.

From his wreckage she'd turned back to me. "What...what did he mean? You _tell_ me, what me what did he mean about my _finger_?"

Like a man looking at himself in a mirror I saw myself now, almost from outside. Slate's survivors were still piling in, gaping. "I don't know. I...I just assumed you were born with it...I don't know." I felt my head shake. "I swear to you...I have no idea of what he was talking about."

"Yes, you do. You...you just don't...remember."

"No, I _don't_!" I retorted, my anger turning swiftly from Comstock's corpse to the decapitated angel of Columbia but a few miles away.

"It's the tears. Memory is affected when you...you cross them... _that's_ why you can't remember."

"Since when the hell did I cross a tear?" I shouted. The conviction in her eyes hadn't changed. "Okay, then I'll prove it to you. We'll end this...end it all and _destroy_ the Siphon. The answer is behind one of your tears, you just have to open it. With the Siphon gone, you can do that."

" _Destroy_ the Siphon?" She said in disbelief. "It's the _entirety of the Tower_ , Booker! How are we gonna do that?"

I cleared my throat, glancing toward the man Slate and Cade had shot dead upon the floor. "You need something destroyed?" I motioned toward the release handle. "I think I might have an idea."

"You're saying we use the weapons?" Elizabeth asked, the mere thought evoking revulsion. "They don't even work!"

"They worked well enough." I looked to his expired corpses. "Comstock was going to use them on South Emporia."

"You cannot do that!" Slate responded angrily.

As he rose a sudden light burst the air about us, a shearing the sides of the bridge in blinding brilliance. The men's eyes widened and Elizabeth had a terrible countenance. "I'd suggest you don't try to stop us."


	24. Chapter 24 Siphon

**24\. Siphon**

"What's your name, son?"

"Garvey, Sir." The aeronaut said, voice a tremble at the sight of my automatic against his head. "Hansen Garvey."

"Very well, Captain Garvey. I trust you understand the situation? Your Prophet is dead and his daughter is with _us_. If she tells you what she wants, will you honor her wishes?" A rack of my repeater ensured only one response was likely.

Garvey's eyes turned to the dead men in the Wheelhouse, their blood oozing upon the floor. "I...shall."

I glanced to Elizabeth. "Seed of the Prophet, what is your desire?"

Again her eyes had fallen upon her dead father. Elizabeth turned with resignation to meet mine. "Destroy the Siphon." She whispered. From behind Cade Slate's brow furrowed. A stir rose amongst their men.

"Siphon? What dis Siphon?" Cade questioned.

Her voice came out louder, more bitterly now. "It's the tower where I was imprisoned." With her hand she pointed toward the decapitated rise of the angel of Columbia and spoke more firmly. "Destroy it."

At gunpoint Garvey took the _Hand's_ helm, communicating to a still cowed Slate that he needed a crew to fly the airship...a crew that Slate's assault had deprived him of. An argument ensued, with Slate shouting that he'd only killed whom he'd had to and that most of Garvey's men yet hadn't even seen their guns. As their ire grew, I couldn't help but be drawn back to her. She'd put on quite a show and shocked everyone, but Elizabeth was inconsolable when I came to her side. These were not tears of sorrow but those of lost hope.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I'm...I'm so sorry." My words came out hollow, yet nothing I could find within could convey how much rage I'd felt at that man for doing what he'd done to her, nor why. I only knew that he'd done her unspeakable wrong and, that despite my better instincts, I loved her.

"You killed him." She said quietly. Not accusingly, but amid her tears more an acknowledgement of fact.

"I kept my word."

Garvey threw a series of levers and bells rang out. Through a series of air tubes I heard a man answer his commands and the _Hand_ began to heel, air buffeting the cab as cloud and smoke began to flow by. After a moment the remains of Monument Island loomed dead center in the glass.

"But...but now I've lost my father. I have no mother...no family...I have...nothing."

Tentatively I took her by the hands...looked into her eyes. "No, Elizabeth. You have _me_ and I will _never_ let you go."

As the ship coursed through the air a sun shaft gleamed into the cabin, and for a moment I saw our reflection in the glass. Her eyes had closed, her hands within mine. I was aware others were looking upon us still but I didn't care. Yet seeing her thimble I had to wonder. What _had_ Comstock meant? How could I know a damned thing about _that_?

My reflection became stronger now as the sun was masked by the outer window frames, and as I studied the woman beside me something about that reflection caught my curiosity, how the furrow between my eyebrows turned...my nose. My blue eyes. Inexorably my gaze turned to the corpse Slate's men had removed from the wheel.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. "What...what it?"

I knelt...turned Comstock's head to my inspection. When I'd seen the man before, our encounter had been uncanny. Now I knew why.

"Booker, what is it?" She asked worriedly, and I felt her hand upon my arm.

"It can't be." I said, unable to believe what I was seeing.

"Please, Booker, you're frightening me!"

"Comstock...he's..." I managed, and with a double take in her perplexed eyes dawned the same realization. " _Me_."

As she looked the epiphany struck her too. Her hand shot to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

"He's me."

"By God in Heaven..." Cornelius muttered. "Older and skinnier...but I see it now. How could I not...how is that even possible!?"

Face graven, I looked back to Elizabeth. "I don't know." She was looking upon me now, distressed as I was. "But somehow, it's got to be _her_."

As the reality sunk in, I heard a shout from Slate's port lookouts. Amid the shock it was hard to turn my attention, but a billowing black burst just off our bow helped. In unison with its crack Slate, his men and Garvey turned to see an airship descending from the clouds above, red star coming into view as it matched our angle for another volley. Men were scurrying upon its decks, taking to small and large weapons alike...readying for a fight.

 _Engels_.

"God in heaven!" I exclaimed, turning to Garvey. "You've got to make this thing go faster!"

"Faster is _not_ the answer!" Garvey shouted back, hands already racing the controls. "We've got to find cover!"

"There's got to be some sort of throttle or accelerator around!" Elizabeth shouted. Slate and his men had raced outside, futilely opening fire at the approaching warship.

"I have us at flank speed, Madame!" Garvey shouted. Ahead Monument Isle was falling to port and _Engels_ closing fast, four heavy guns slung beneath coming ominously to bear. "What more can I do!?"

Between _Engels_ ' guns I saw a uniformed German gunnery captain drop his hand, and suddenly the weapons, eight barrels in all, flashed. My eyes went wide and I took Elizabeth to the deck. Around us the wheelhouse exploded, shearing the top of the cabin away and puncturing it with a spray of shrapnel. With ringing ears I looked up to see the wheel barely intact and Garvey gone. Outside Slate, Cade and his irregulars continued to give _Engels'_ hell, but behind them I saw the _Hand_ exploding in a series of titanic detonations. I spun to the controls. "We have to fly this thing!" I cried out, throwing the wheel to make for a tower of cloud billowing before us. Eyes racing the console, I struggled to find a throttle. "Where is the goddamned throttle!" I yelled. "Do you know what that looks like?!"

Beside me Elizabeth wrung her hands. "I don't know!"

My control input was too large and too fast. As it took effect, the _Hand_ began to list into the turn. Outside I could see gunners and crew fall in sheaves into the cloudy void below, dislodged by _Engels'_ heavy guns and thrown clear by my drunken steersmanship. _Engels'_ guns came to bear, and I realized that another shot from the range they'd closed to would be it. We were already on fire...now we would die.

"Elizabeth, the throttle!" I shouted.

"It's too late for that!" She cried, leaping outward onto the prow of the doomed warship. As _Engels_ drew ever closer for the kill I realized that we were getting perilously close to Monument Island. A shear of light eclipsed my view, a great curtain pulling back in a half mile circular veil of fire. As the air crackled and snapped two grey behemoths plowed through the tear, the American warships I'd seen off the coast of Maine... _Wyoming_ and _Arkansas_ , belching black plumes of smoke behind them as their airscrews tore the air with deafening thunder. On _Engels_ I heard claxons, saw its guns turning at the behest of petrified gunners. On the Americans I could see shock too, faces arrived early to a fight they either not been ready for or not expected at all. As their crews rushed to battle stations, _Engels_ made the fatal mistake of starting a war.

She got one shot in then another on _Arkansas_ , which suddenly billowed smoke and fire. In unison _Arkansas_ and _Wyoming's_ twelve inchers unleased in spectacular broadside. _Engels'_ aim had been devastating to the _Hand_.

 _Wyoming's_ and _Arkansas'_ were lethal.

Explosions erupted down the Bolshevik's 800 foot length, lift bags incinerating the shards and flesh of gunners as they flew outward into the void. Deprived of buoyancy its burning hulk began to fall, picking up speed until it slammed into the buildings at the base of Monument Island. Its magazine detonated instantly, blowing the airship and facilities to hell.

Around us energy crackled and exploded with surreal intensity along the mortally wounded frame of the _Hand of the Prophet,_ now in a fiery plunge to the sea. Everything around me was charged with light. Unable to control the vessel, I clung to the railings and looked outward from the wrecked Bridge. "Elizabeth! I can't control it!" I shouted. Before us the clouds broke and I could see not only the falling remains of Monument Island but whitecaps. "Elizabeth! Do something...!" I screamed, "We're gonna die!"

Amid the gale I noticed that she too was glowing, holding on to nothing, looking oddly at her hands as the Atlantic approached. "No, we're not." She said in a calm voice.

She threw wide her arms and the world exploded.


	25. Chapter 25 Doorways

**25\. Doorways**

When the brilliance faded Elizabeth was standing in silhouette before a panoramic window, a window that looked out into dimly lit undersea depths. Beyond fronds of undulating seaweed a city glowed, an impossible city connected by the steel cylinders of framework tunnel. Between those ill-lit buildings the wreckage of _Engels_ sank...chunks and pieces alighting in the depths with billowing clouds of dirt. In the distance I saw an arm of the Columbia come to rest. Slate and his men were nowhere to be found.

"Elizabeth..." I said, glancing about uneasily. "What...is this place?" From the window she'd turned and begun to walk, boot soles rapping softly upon the tile. Columns and couches dotted the foyer's floor, while a grand staircase ran from both sides to a circular landing atop a sliding white doorway. Above it glowing neon illuminated the words _RAPTURE METRO_. Posters hung upon its walls. Somewhere in the distance music played.

"It's a doorway...one of many." She said with uncertain voice, looking up and around.

"What do you mean 'it's a doorway?'" I asked as she continued to walk toward the doors. "Where are you going!?"

"Oh, come on..." She said, hastening her pace. "It's this way!" Distracted, the girl hadn't looked at me since our arrival.

"What Comstock said about your finger...why we look alike...is there an answer here?" I asked, trying to get her to look at me. The white door had a circle in it that spun at her approach. The door rose.

It opened to a burnt out staircase, decorations fallen from the walls. "Down here!" She shouted from below, waving me after. Here and there skeletons and rotted corpses dotted the flanks of the passage, yet these horrors she seemed to pay no heed. Coming to a fallen column she slipped over it, possessed by whatever madness had overcome her.

"Elizabeth, wait!" I climbed the pillar upon my posterior. She'd continued onward, racing down a red carpeted stair, alighting at a landing above what seemed an undersea terminus. Upon the wall behind her on the upper level, a sign stated,

" _ATTENTION!_

 _All Bathysphere travel is now denied!_

At its base the carpet veered across an atrium with glass windows open to the sea. Between each a thirty foot gray statue rose, men with angelic wings rising above their heads. As I followed she entered a oblate pod with benches on the sides. "Elizabeth, what is going on? What do you mean, this is a doorway?"

"I'll have to show you." Finally she'd stopped, looking into my eyes. She turned toward a set of controls and a lever.

"Probably gonna to regret this." I muttered, drawing it back. The doors to the pod closed and the thing began to descend. After a turn, we headed outward through the odd hoops I'd seen outside. Around us the buildings rose, like New York but impossibly modern, impossibly bright. The fact that they were untold fathoms beneath the surface of the Atlantic was as illogical as Columbia. Gradually the city fell away.

We were ascending.

The sphere surfaced to a calm ocean beneath a starry sky, barely a wave to be seen. Before us rose a high, gray lighthouse. "Look at that..." Elizabeth sighed. "Thousands of doors, opening all at once. My God, they're beautiful!"

I noticed the sphere moving toward the pillar of stone, sending ripples outward from the unearthly still waters. "What? The stars?" The capsule came to a halt and doors opened with a hiss, but now I realized something seemed off...as real as this seemed...as real as _everything_ had seemed...something wasn't right. I could feel it.

Elizabeth took my hand. "Come on." She said. "It's this way." She led me out upon the landing and it was cool, as cool as a North Atlantic night ought to be. I wished I had a coat, but despite her light accoutrement she seemed unfazed. That worried me.

The lighthouse was massive...at least two hundred feet high with a circumnavigation of gray stone that ascended in a shallow spiral. Atop the tower's height a brilliant white beacon glowed, the brightest against a starry night. Surmounting the shallow spiral of stairs, she led us to a pair of massive brass doors. Each was of the finest workmanship, each adorned by half of the image of a man caught in gold. Like the statues we'd seen below, his arms were upstretched as angelic wings. Tall gray stone columns rose to either side, supporting an overhanging triangular pediment. In my ears I now could hear a ringing. Not the sound of guns and explosions...more unearthly...like a choir of angels.

The Brobdingnagian gates were locked.

"Are you gonna open it?" I asked, wondering how that was even a rational question. I looked upward, attempting in vain to find Columbia. It hadn't been nighttime when we'd fallen.

She fumbled with her hairpin...sighed in exasperation. "Oh, it's no good. I...I thought once we were here I could fully control it. I thought..." In my mind I heard a ting such as the striking of a tuning fork, and abruptly Elizabeth stopped talking. She was looking to her hand.

"What is _that_?" I exclaimed, looking at the brass appeared in her hand.

"It's...it's a key." She said, looking at it spellbound. Her eyes slowly migrated to the horizon, looking almost through me.

"Where did it come from?" I asked, quite unable to believe my own.

"It's...it's _always_ been there. I just couldn't see it."

Before I could question her enigmatic bullshit, she turned and unlocked the mechanism. About us the surreal ocean remained smooth as glass, that eerie hum pervading an endless horizon. Realizing she was waiting for me, I turned from the horizon to press the doors open. Instead of passing into a lighthouse we passed beneath a gate.

I did a double take, unable to believe my eyes. yet inside seemed to be out...save for the fact that as far as the eye could see was the languid ocean adorned by hundreds more lighthouses. All _exactly_ the same as the one we entered. On the horizon and above us were more stars than I could count, only now I realized they were not stars...they were beacons...beacons atop upon even _more_ lighthouses.

"Not stars... _doors_." Elizabeth said hands wide, the hem of her dress flaring slightly as she turned about.

"Doors...to?" I whispered ominously.

"Doors to _everywhere_." She answered, turning again, eyes meeting the myriad of spires rising above us. Finally the girl looked back to me. "All that's left is the choosing."

Elizabeth began to descend the steps. Over my shoulder I could see the entrance to the lighthouse we'd only just entered. The door behind us had closed.

"Elizabeth, what are all these lighthouses?" I asked, still unable to comprehend what I was seeing. "Why are we...who..."

"There are a million, _million_ worlds. All different and...all similar." As she came upon the landing inches above the water, stone rushed up from beneath the depths to form a walkway, complete with stone railings and lanterns aglow on both sides. My eyes goggled. She seemed to take little notice of this, even as I fell behind her in shock. Something, I knew for certain now, _was_ off here...what I was seeing was not the reality of things. What had happened to her? What had happened to _us_? "Constants and variables." She finished.

"What?" I asked, troubled by this funhouse mirror we found ourselves in.

"There's always a lighthouse. There's always a man. There's always a city." She'd turned back to me with a sad expression.

"How...do you _know_ this?" I exclaimed softly, not certain that I wanted to know the answer.

"I can see them through the doors." She said, glancing about. "You...me...Columbia..." Her eyes again landed upon me. "But sometimes something is different..."

Finally I understood. "Constants...and variables."

"Yes." She said, hands at her sides.

Though she looked the same as the woman I'd rescued from the Monument, there was preternatural calm in her demeanor. Whatever the Siphon had done to her, she could see _all_ these possibilities. No ignorance would befall her...no happenstance could ever surprise her. I didn't like it.

Onward I followed, watching as a phantasmal bridge of stone rose from the water before me. She began to walk and I followed, realizing that we were heading for a lighthouse...not the nearest one, but one just beyond it. Nearing the mirror image of the steps we'd ascended moments earlier, Elizabeth was ready with her key. As she unlocked the new gates I approached, passing into what should have been a cold, stony interior. Instead we emerged at dawn to a cloud swept horizon.

I found myself looking down a receding seashore, while above and behind a whitewashed tower rose, octagonal, with a glowing Russian church dome atop it. Its brilliance was such that it was unbearable to look at. Where had I seen this before? "Look." Elizabeth said with a turn and raise of her hands.

In my awe I'd somehow not noticed, but the horizon was far from empty, much like the last sea we had entered from. Thousands of these lighthouses lit its reach, each atop a cliff, each rising impossibly above a sandy beach on a high outcrop of rock. Upon the landing of each I saw two figures...Elizabeth and myself.

"It's... _us_." I breathed, seeing my back from a distance. Elizabeth was with me, pointing...and him...and a hundred others. The ocean and coast was flat and endless. The ocean was filled with lighthouses. What I was seeing was _not_ possible.

"Not exactly." She said, turning to watch ourselves walking the stone of the landing, the path from one lighthouse to the next seemingly assembling itself from nothing. I realized this must be my mind trying to make sense of the inexplicable...at least in our reality. "We swim in different oceans, but land on the same shore. It always starts with a lighthouse."

I shook my head, my mind threatening to revolt. "I...I don't understand."

"We don't need to." She said, leaning inward toward me. "It'll happen all the same."

"Why?"

"Because it does. Because it has. Because it _will_." She turned to look upward with hands upon hips.

"Choices." I whispered, looking at the infinitude of domed towers. "There's so many choices."

"They all lead us to the same place." Elizabeth answered. "Where it started."

I'd had about enough madness. "No one tells me where to go." I grumbled.

"Booker..." She said, resignation upon her face. "You've already _been_."

She turned and began to walk. Unable to ignore the dozens, hundreds of us walking along the cliff side overlooks beneath the glowing towers, I followed. Eventually we came to the dreaded doors once more, and waiting for my approach she opened them. Instead of an ocean they opened to a flowing steam, split in twain about an islet. About the pool several men and women were assembled in the water up to their knees, while steep banks led up to grassy, tree-lined hillocks.

"Wait a minute...I know this place." I heard myself saying. "It's in Kansas, near Fort Riley. I was here, Elizabeth. Twenty years ago, right after Wounded Knee. I was looking for..."

She'd stepped aside, and though we were both in the steam she didn't seem bothered. "Why were you here?"

"Are you ready to have your past erased?" The preacher said. "Are you ready to have your sins cleansed?" I recognized him now...Comstock's preacher...Witting. "Are you ready to be _born again_?"

Though this was a memory of mine I found myself trudging through the water as the parishioners whispered silent prayers and praises to the Lord. "Take my hand." Witting said, offering his outstretched own.

"No, I don't want to." I said, fear rising in my words. This was more than a memory.

"But you already did, didn't you?" Elizabeth asked from my side.

"Are you ready to be born again!?" Witting extoled as he clasped my fingers. "Do you hate your sins?!"

"I do." I heard myself whisper.

"Do you hate your wickedness?!"

" _YES_!" I proclaimed. I felt pain now, and remembered again the dead squaws on that cold December morning...remembered how my hands felt filleting their scalps...seeing my hideous work upon their faces.

"Do you want to clean the slate, leave behind all that you were before and be born again in the blood of the Lamb?"

" _YES_!" I shouted anew.

Witting was looking me in the eyes now...raised his hands to my face. "Jesus! Wash this man clean. "Father, make him born aga..."

Suddenly a terror came upon me and I found myself pushing him away...both to his surprise and mine. Those around me too were dismayed, but I wrestled my way out of their circle and out into the open cool water. "Stop it!" I railed. About me well dressed men tried to calm my fit. I broke free and ran, splashing through the water toward the banks until they were gone. Only me, Elizabeth and the water remained.

"You didn't go through with it." Elizabeth said, standing near me.

"You think a dunk in the river is gonna change the things I've done?!" I exclaimed, holding back tears, unable to get the memory of the women out of my mind. Still I felt their bloody scalps in my hand...saw the grisly impression I'd made on my 'mates'. "Let's get out of here. These...these doors of yours...they're all tears, right?" Well, open one up...open one up to Paris. I want to be shed of all this!"

She was looking at me, absorbing my tirade. "Not until we find Comstock."

"Comstock is dead!" I shouted. "Or don't you remember?"

"No!" She said, turning back to me with anger in her eyes. "He was _here_." She let out her arm toward a path up a low hill...a whitewashed chapel sat atop it, a rickety plank door at its front. It seemed hardly more than a shed. "This way."

It wasn't a lighthouse, but it opened the same. A gate.

Beyond the door stood a man silhouetted against a window. The room I recognized as my apartment in the Bowery. "And what of my debts?" I heard myself ask.

He smiled contritely. "Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt." By his voice I recognized him...orange haired, dressed in a suit. Laslowe.

Elizabeth was standing next to a nearby door. Not the door to the apartment, but the one adjoining my bed room. Hesitantly I reached its knob, remembering how drunk I'd been that night...how mind-bendingly blasted. It was all I could do to keep my balance. I turned the brass knob...swung the door open to reveal a nursery that smelled like Annabelle. Inside I heard cooing and the chimes of a music box.

"Wait..." I mumbled, approaching the crib. A brown haired infant with blue eyes looked back at me, suddenly reaching, excited for my presence. "No, this is wrong...what is this!? There was no...no baby! I remember...there was no baby and if there was, I sure as hell wouldn't give it over to this guy!"

"Booker..." I heard her say, though I could not now see her. "You don't leave this room until you do."

"Wait..."

Laslowe had arrived at the door now, standing hands behind his back. "DeWitt...time is running short. Bring us the girl...and wipe away the debt."

Coming back from McSorely's, I'd remembered his words but hadn't thought he'd show. Annabelle was gone seven months now, and I'd managed to rack up debts I could never repay. I'd spent the evening drinking instead of taking care of our child. She could have died. Though it pained me, I knew that whomever this man served, his master could offer my girl a better life.

A life rid of me.

Reluctantly I reached into the crib and slipped my fingers about her tiny form...felt her fingers embrace mine. Saw those blue eyes.

"Go ahead." Elizabeth said, now standing in the corner beyond the cradle.

"No." I muttered, shaking my head.

"You can wait as long as you want." She said, crossing her arms before her. "Eventually you'll give him what he wants."

" _How do you know all this_!?" I exclaimed in exasperation. I felt the child touch me.

"I can see _all_ the doors..." She said with a flash of her hands. "And what's _behind_ all the doors. And behind one of them, I see _him_."

The realization dawned upon me like ice water in the face. "Comstock..." As if I was acting out a play, I turned...handed the baby to the waiting man. Her eyes were still upon mine and she reached out, not wanting to let go. It tore my heart to do what I knew I must. To do otherwise would condemn her to the hell I lived in. "What choice do I have?"

The gentleman took her in hand, bowed slightly with a flourish of his hand. "The debt's paid." Upward he tipped his head and turned. "Mr. Comstock washes you of all of your sins."

Crossing the creaking floorboards of my dilapidated apartment, he opened the door and exited. Still dangerously inebriated, I stumbled to the lone table and chair and sat heavily within. Before me a bottle beckoned, perhaps an eighth full of whiskey. How could I have not remembered this?

"What are we doing here?" I growled, swigging the burning caramel. "Comstock's...dead. We can just go on with our lives. You don't need..."

" _Dead_?" Elizabeth shouted, coming about the table until she was in my blurred sight. _NO!_ He is _ALIVE_ in a million, _MILLION_ worlds! It's not over because the Prophet is dead. It will only be over when he never even _lived_ in the first place!" I sat in the room drinking slowly, looking at the bottle...destroying the memories forever. It was nighttime outside and I could hear the automobiles and horse drawn wagons carrying through the streets below. Somewhere out my window a sigh flashed. The sound of the apartment was otherwise silent.

Eventually I rose...a difficult feat considering my state, wondering if I'd remember anything at all in the morning. Beneath my worthless Seventh Cavalry frame and memorabilia I opened Annabelle's jewelry box...knowing it would be empty. Yet her smell was somehow still there. Closing my eyes, I remembered Kansas...I remembered her. She smelled like Anna.

My eyes shot open.

Racing down the stairs, I burst onto Bowery and fell knees first upon my face. Rising from the brick of the sidewalk, I looked up to find Mrs. Neary glaring down upon me. "Moira..." I slurred, achieving my skinned hands and knees. "A man...a man just left my apartment. He had a baby girl in his arms."

"Anna?" She said. "I thought I saw one. But why's he a havin' her this late at night, Mr. DeWitt?"

I staggered to my feet. "You saw him?!" I cried, looking down the night dark streets. "Which...which way did he go!" She pointed northward, and with wild eyes I was off, dashing, stumbling, tripping over myself. So drunk I was that I've no idea how far I ran, but I knew one thing...no matter what, I could not lose this last bit of Annabelle. Anna was ours...and I'd die to keep her.

Ahead several passersby had gathered at the entry way to an alley, an alley which popped and sparkled with the flash of electricity. Pushing them aside, I looked down its length to see two men...one of them Laslowe.

" _The deal is off, you hear me!?"_ I shouted. It had begun to rain, and a cold, damp sheen covered my face.

Ahead the other man, darkly bearded, clad in a suit and heavily shouldered coat, was yelling into the wall at what I first supposed to be a door or another alley. When I stumbled to a halt to my shock I found it was neither. Instead it was a glowing portal, a ring of blinding fire cut straight through the brick itself. Inside I saw a woman, orange haired, arguing from behind that wall with Laslowe. They could have been twins. "Are you mad!?" Laslowe exclaimed, yet he was not holding my girl. Instead this _other_ man was. He turned to glance at my commotion down the side street, and despite the beard I recognized him instantly. At my sight he seemed to blanche, looking alternately at me and the thin air at my side.

"It's ready!" I heard the woman shout. "Go!"

I threw myself upon him and yanked him about by the arm, forcing him to look into my eyes. My eyes met my own, and in that moment both of us reeled. Obviously more prepared for our encounter than I, he took the opportunity to kick me in the gut, slamming me backward into the brick work. From the rooftops above downwash sluicing over my shoulders.

"Give her back you son of a bitch!" I yelled, grappling his lapel. Yet the rain had made his coat slick and being drunk my hands struggled for purchase. With Anna in his arms he slipped my grasp and stumbled backward through the glowing hole in the bearing wall. "No!" I shouted, catching him again. We wrestled, as about us the glowing hole began to collapse. "No, no, _NO_!"

"Shut down the machine!" He cried, my own voice speaking his words. "Shut down the machine _NOW_! Do _IT_!"

" _Give me back my daughter!_ " I shouted. In fury I lunged and snagged his arm but it was too late. For a moment I had him...then I didn't. At my slip he fell backward through the portal. Already crying, Anna's blue eyes grew wide, and as he drew her away her tiny hand reached out to mine.

" _NOOOOOOOO!"_ I bellowed. The burning circle closed with a flash. Before me the tip of her pinkie flew, tumbling slowly through the air, spinning a trail of blood. Falling after it I struck the wet brick of the wall head first. "Anna...Anna." I cried. Spots flew in my eyes and I felt dizzy. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The rain began to come down in earnest now as I lay there, falling into a stupor.

Elizabeth was there, whispering to me as she looked out the window of my apartment. "She's gone, Booker. Anna's gone. You...shared this room with your regret for almost twenty years." Holding my hand outward, I saw the initials upon its back...the brand I'd placed there. A.D.

Anna DeWitt.

"Until one day, a man came to you and offered you a chance at redemption...a chance for us to be together."

"So...I sold you." I whispered. I did not feel drunk now, though I wished I did. How could I have not remembered that? My head seemed to ache where I'd struck it, painfully so. We were standing below the strange lighthouse now, its Russian orb all aglow. "This is all Comstock's fault. What if I went back...killed him before he did any of this!?"

Elizabeth stared at me as we came to the landing. "Things get set in motion, Booker. How could you even know how far back to go?"

I felt furious. "That's the only way to do it...go back to when he was born, and I'll smother the son of a bitch in the his crib!"

As I went to open the door, I felt her place her hand upon mine, face forlorn. "Booker...are you _sure_ this is what you want?"

"I have to." I whispered. Gently I removed her hand from mine, the bandage loosed now atop her knife split initials. "It's the only way I can undo what I've done to you." I looked at the thimble. For a moment she didn't let me go. Pushing her aside, I opened the door anyway.

Witting was standing there in the water, but there were no parishioners now...just him and me. It was where we had left off...before I'd broken and run.

"Booker DeWitt...are you ready to be _born again_!?" He exclaimed.

Ignoring him, I turned back to the portal only to find Elizabeth. There was no portal. She had a dire look upon her face. Anxiously my eyes cast about, glancing the hill tops and railings of roads just out of sight. "Why...why are we back here?" .

"This isn't the same place, Booker."

"Of course it is, I remember...wait..." Studying her now, I saw that upon her neck she bore a golden cage upon the black pendant. Behind me Witting was pontificating, asking if I was ready to leave behind all that had gone before. "You're not...you're not...who _are_ you?" Now another Elizabeth appeared, wearing her blue skirt and neckerchief. Beside her I saw another, her hair cut, clad in Montgomery's blue dress and corset. Beside her soon came another, then another. All different...all the same. On their pendants none bore the bird.

"You chose to walk away..." The one in her skirt said. "But in other oceans, you didn't..." Another said. "You took the baptism..."

"And were born again."

"As a different man."

"Comstock..." I gasped.

"It all has to end." One of them said.

"To have never have started." Said another.

"Not just in this world."

"But in all of ours..."

"Smother him in the crib." I uttered, realizing where this was going.

"Smother...smother...smother..." They said, repeating one by one what I'd said. "Before the choice is made."

" _Before you are reborn..."_ Said the first.

"And what name do you take, my son? Witting said from behind me.

One of the Elizabeths approached, innocent in her white dress, taking my forearm into her hands. "He's Zachary Comstock."

Now another approached, white blouse and blue skirt. She took my other. "He's Booker DeWitt."

"No..." I said, realizing the truth. "I'm both."

In unison they plunged me backward. My head hit the water with a splash. They held me with force, and though my body struggled for air I realized _this_ was how it had to be. I _had_ to pay for my sins. I waited until the inevitable, and as their condemning eyes looked down upon me eventually I breathed water.


	26. Chapter 26 Out of Time and Space

**26\. Out of Time and Space**

Drowning is not the worst way to die.

There are others more fearsome, many more painful. One is by fire. The skin catches alight...crackles and chars and the very nerves sear until pain itself vanishes. One could be eaten by a lion or perhaps a shark...death comes as teeth tearing, and as the blood flees lightness comes. Or one could die of old age in a home, slowly losing one's mind, separated from loved ones utterly and perfectly alone...dissipating into nothingness. One thing I see now is that life has constants and variables.

One of those constants is death.

Yet as I drift over my dying body and Elizabeth fades into the possibility space, things that have not been clear to me begin to crystallize. Despite my demise, I still _am_. Despite the unnatural visions I understand _everything_ , for I am like Elizabeth.

I see how by my decisions this path has unfolded, and despite Elizabeth's evolved nature how she has set herself a cunning trap...a hell from which she will never escape. In the infinitude that now stretches before me I see the lighthouses...her doorways...how she chose to represent choices. They are the fabric of time and space itself, those choices, designed for us, seen by us as we fancy to see them. It is a great mystery...and no mystery at all.

A pinprick of light appears in the firmament like a new star. It is a beautiful light...a compelling light. It is a _living_ light. As my mind becomes absorbed in it I begin to feel movement, increasing until I am at breakneck speed. The sensation of a vortex wraps around me, a tunnel, and I know that I have left my world behind. As my speed increases, I begin see depth in this light which lay at the end of the tunnel. Blinding, transcendent light. By now my speed is immense, yet when I think about it I realize I am no longer moving. Perhaps I never was. I am in the presence of the light, and always have been. The light has form and purpose.

The light is love.

"Are you _sure_ this is what you want?" It asks without speaking, and in its presence I feel form, perhaps that of a man, perhaps not. Human words are incapable of describing such a thing. In a dust covered jewelry case I find my answer.

#

Gently I remove her thimbled appendage from mine, my bandage loosed to reveal knife split initials. For a moment I look at her deformity. My arms, still crusted about their wounds, ache. "It's the only way I can undo what I've done to you." I hear myself saying again. The feeling is uncanny...I've been here before.

Elizabeth and I are standing together at the landing below the lighthouse. It takes me a moment to process that I've died. Or, perhaps, I have _not_ died but have seen all the possibles of me that will, or _must_. Perhaps, like Elizabeth, I have for a moment been the sum of _all_ of those DeWitts I'd seen walking the oceans. All I know is that I am here and my journey is not over.

"Elizabeth...before I...do this, I need to show you something." I see in her eyes uncertainty...even fear. She _knows_ what lies beyond that door, and it is why out of all of her possibilities she cannot bring herself to follow.

She loves me.

Not for some perfect DeWitt in a distant possible where all the right choices were made, but _me_...one who screwed up. One who lost her but risked his life trying to somehow find her again. Her brow is knit in turmoil. Subtly things shift about us, though still we stand at the doors of this strange cliff borne tower. As far as the eye can see they reach along intermingled coastlines, yet everything now is different. And everything is the same. Around us the seas crash and spray. I taste salt in the air.

Uncertainty plays upon her face. "I...see the doors, Booker, all of them, and what's behind the doors." Raising her hand, the woman's fingertips trace the solidity of the brass knocker. "But I can't see beyond _this_ one."

"I'll have to show you." I say, offering my hand. Reluctantly her palm rises to mine, speckled with flecks of blood. I feel her thimble in my grasp...see the weary blue of her eyes. So different than the girl I met only days ago. I open the doors.

Beyond them lies a simple room, lit by evening window light and the honking colors of the Bowery. My memory is strong here. Perhaps it isn't omniscience, but I've discovered godhood not all it's cracked up to be. At its center beside an unmade bed my wooden table is as I left it, dingy, strewn with losing bets and no future. Twenty years of despair paint this apartment's walls. This is no apparition...this is _home_.

"Booker, why...why are we here?" I step through, beckoning her with my outstretched hand to follow. Within her now lay _all_ possibilities, the possibility of _every_ Elizabeth that could ever be.

I want only _one_.

In the telling moment I brace myself, feel the static and loss of reason that comes with the breaching of a tear. She cries aloud and as she falls I catch her in my arms. Settling to the floorboards, I cradle her and draw her close. I feel wetness upon my cheek.

With my bandage I dab the tears at the corner of her eye, look back over my shoulder to see no door. No tear. Only gray wall...only me and my Elizabeth. Beneath my knees the floorboards creak, and as I cradle her head she comes to...blue eyes peering from beneath wet lashes.

"Booker?" She asks. For the first time in two decades I thank God. Her hand comes to life and finds mine.

"I've got you. It's over." I whisper, brushing her hair back.

"What do you mean, 'it's over?' What's happ...? I can't...can't see the doors!" Placing her other behind herself, she props herself to a dizzied swoon. I hear the noises of the street again. Automobiles. She's frightened...how could she not be? "Booker, what's happened? I can't see the doors!" The smell of must and age and mildew in the chamber is heavy.

I look into her eyes. "We're home."

"Home?" She says, holding her brow. "But...but what about Comstock?!"

"You don't need to worry about him."

"But...but..." She winces, as if struggling to remember. "We...have to stop him from..."

"Stop him from _what_ , Elizabeth? _You_ of all people should know what _infinite_ means. Comstock _exists_. He'll _always_ exist, and so will Columbia. Somewhere. You talked of constants and variables but didn't _understand_. Kill Comstock at birth in a million million worlds...there are a million _million_ more where you couldn't."

"I... _don't_ understand."

I shake my head, wiping my face, unwilling to explain how I know this to be true. Would she think me insane? Could it be any dafter than what we'd already _been_ through? "Constants and variables..." I say, remembering the light. "They're _all_ variables, Elizabeth, only _constant_ to us because the choices that give rise to them _aren't accessible_." I look to her. "But they're still choices...for someone, some...thing...somewhere. In some worlds, the Titanic _did_ crash into the North Atlantic, but _we'll_ never hear about it."

She looks upon dress and hands before turning back to me. "Comstock..."

"Me." I whisper. "You wanted him _erased_ , removed from all existence, but really only from _your_ existence."

"But, Booker..." She says, only now beginning to understand. "We have...to stop..."

"He's gone, Elizabeth. At least for us." With a strain I rise to my feet, heft her in my arms and make for the chair. Forearm draped behind my neck, her eyes remain with mine, brown hair framing confusion. The wood of the seat creaks as I set her down, and as I turn away the memory of corpses in the snow returns...the cold, biting wind of the Dakota plains cutting through me as surely as it did twenty years ago. "And frankly, we _can't_ do anything more. What's done is done. We've no choice but to learn and move on. And that doesn't mean destroying the most precious gift we been given in a futile attempt at righting the scales."

" _Gift_?"

"Our _lives_. Our existence. Our experience together. For better or worse, what we do here on this Earth is precious. It's unique. Surely by now you know Zachary Hale Comstock isn't the only evil? Look at Europe. Are you...all right?"

"I feel...smaller. I can't see the doors." She whispers again, holding herself. She seems so cold, as though she feels the ghosts of the Lakota, too.

" _No one_ should, Elizabeth..." I walk to the dresser. Before me Annabelle's jewelry box sits atop my steamer trunk. Leaning inward, I blow the dust from her old case and take it in hand, opening a drawer to remove a small black box. My eyes linger upon it before turning to face her. "Not if you want to remain sane. Or human. We could never succeed in what you were trying to do. But I realized that...just before it was too late, maybe I might be able to save _us_." I hand her the object, a rectangle inlaid with the gold initials "A.D."

"What...what is this?" She opens it and jolts, case and contents falling with a clatter to the floor. I kneel to the dusty boards...place the mummified, bony nub back into its sarcophagus.

"It's all...all I had left of you."

Eyes wide, her fingertips rise to touch the case anew. "Porridge."

"And peas." I close it with a kiss. "Back together where she belongs. The universe is appeased."

"That's a pun, isn't it?" She manages with a faint smile, still looking at the tiny box. It fades when she looks back toward the wall. "No more tears."

"No. No more tears."

After a moment she turns to me, examining my face with wide blue eyes...raises her hand to caress my cheek. "Are you real?" Our eyes close and I pull her to me. Hesitantly our lips meet. The back of my hand cradles her neck, feeling again her hair over my fingertips. I know she is my daughter but I cannot help myself, for she is also this woman I love.

Anna DeWitt. Elizabeth Comstock.

The same.

I feel her relent, and when finally we part I my name is on her breath against my neck. I wipe the sheen from her cheek. "And no more _tears_..." She opens her eyes and I realize how terribly she resembles her mother. I kiss her thimble, and for the first time in what seems like eternity she beams.

"At least we'll have Paris?"

"Yeah..." I answer and hug her again, trying to convince myself that what I've done is for the best. "We'll have Paris."

I have no idea of how wrong I am...on all accounts.

###

The End

of

 **Ghosts of Garryowen**


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